

vv 


. <£ 

v. '••*** ^ * 


o " a 



o * 

,* ** ^ - 

* A <* 'o. 7 * ,G 

Ay • «■'*., 

*“ o ‘ 

^ /V ^ ^ <** 

o > 









G 

- ’W ' 

• ^ . 

4 J 

V ' ,(V A v ^ ~ ® * 0 " *V' ~ • » ’ 

V fc “ 

*w* * 

: 

* <■? °^ • 

* ts y ■» <L V v ci» «* 

A v v* a°^ ^ *' 7 V** x 

aG , i 1 •> + <£. c 0 " * + * G 

.4* * rr G • cf$$W\ o ^ 

- **. 0 < ^ / ‘ 


» kV <* • 

• <t.r O * 

...» ^ «V * 

^ V * * • °» C \ V 


° V ^ 



* * 9 ^ 


f u V 

y >lvi% ~ 


^JU ^tr T- _ _ A.' . • L ^ ^ -t 

% 

o , 

'>'WSS?.' °-V 0 4,0 ^£. *■ 




%*+ 



* -* V V *.W,' ^ 

^• V . t . 

- ; 

> o_ A ^ - 


V> *'••**' A 0 ’ 'O, 

<$> f\* 0 N o _ 

«» (*v 0 _ _ ♦ G> 

-y v it V? 

i V6 a <i esNXWn^ * 


V A, , 
“ <? • 



; • 


- ^ ^ ^ 
* - 6 > ° 

* .V V. ' 



•o A*' %* 

°, ^ <? • 


. v<* 

X ,\\ «£. ° 

,* <y ^ * 




tc. “AJ^^T 0 s? ^ VS5*?* P' t 4- r «5 °^ 

■v • . . . • .«* %. •..,•* f o° v '• rr?»* *,* 

'* ^ V ..!••- C> a'V ,vV'„ *> V s , 


b'* ^ ** % 

^ ". V« V - «* 



jfi ' * • > A - -v x 

, 0 * ,„■., ^ 0 <J> . l(#< <0 

o > 





% ‘‘Trr-’’ 

C'. aO % s# * 



**V 

* tp ^ 

< <L V rZ* >* 

* A° %.*'•■> 

Or o 0 " 0 ♦ *^o 

0 * _ o 





:♦ v 


‘V-TT^’ 

v” * ’ * °- C\ «0 . S V / 



* -O * 

. «* < N * 

« ^ 

• Or • i 

<0 * 7 *. * • «J o 

■> * ^UYvvss 4 ' fv” _ 

•o. , 0 ° °q.‘^T*'o' 


>y 0 ^ 



<4>* . t * • „ 

% ’ 0 A<T 

V> iy a"P’ * "* *P > ^ 

O > - @^W*&rLn\ * V* p i> 


\0 »7*’ * A^ilBjLjab'^yj * <1 O 

r * V*, v ’«rl^«r l 0 <£> 
f° *. 4 ' 0 « 0 9 




















' 












HBIH 













































ADELA CATHCART, 




Adela Cathcart 


BY 

GEORGE MACDONALD 

*\ 

AUTHOR OF “ DAVID ELGINBROD,” “ ROBERT FALCONER,” “ PHANTASTES,” ETC. 


** Me list not of the chaf ne of the stre 
Maken so long a tale as of the corn.” 

— Chaucer. — Man of Lawes Tale, 


PHILADELPHIA r 

DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER, 

1022 Market Street. 





















V * 











/fSY S/ 





«. > 


t 

* 


* 

* * * 


1 















a % 











ADELA CATHCART 





CHAPTER I. 

CHRISTMAS EYE. 

It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve, sinking towards the 
night. All day long the wintry light had been diluted with 
fog, and now the vanguard of the darkness coming to aid the 
mist, the dying day was well-nigh smothered between them. 
When I looked through the window, it was into a vague and 
dim solidification of space, a mysterious region in which awful 
things might be going on, and out of which anything might 
come ; but out of which nothing came in the mean time, ex- 
cept small sparkles of snow, or rather ice, which, as we swept 
rapidly onwards, and the darkness deepened, struck faster and 
faster against the weather- windows. For we, that is, myself 
and a fellow-passenger, of whom I knew nothing yet but the 
waistcoat and neckcloth, having caught a glimpse of them as 
he searched for an obstinate railway-ticket, were in a railway- 
carriage, darting along, at an all but frightful rate, northwards 
from London. 

Being the sole occupants of the carriage, we had made the 
most of it, like Englishmen, by taking seats diagonally oppo- 
site to each other, laying our heads in the corners, and trying 
to go to sleep. But for me it was of no use to try any longer. 
Not that I had anything particular on my mind or spirits ; but 
a man cannot always go to sleep at spare moments. If any- 
one can, let him consider it a great gift, and make good use of 


4 


ADELA CATHCART. 


it accordingly ; that is, by going to sleep on every such op- 
portunity. 

As I, however, could not sleep, much as I should have en- 
joyed it, I proceeded to occupy my very spare time with 
building up what I may call a conjectural mould, into which 
the face, dress, carriage, etc., of my companion would fit. I 
had already discovered that he was a clergyman ; but this 
added to my difficulties in constructing the said mould. For, 
theoretically, I had a great dislike to clergymen ; having, 
hitherto, always found that the clergy absorbed the man ; and 
that the cloth , as they called it even themselves, would be no 
bad epithet for the individual as well as the class. For all 
clergymen whom I had yet met regarded mankind and their 
interests solely from the clerical point of view, seeming far 
more desirous that a man should be a good churchman, as they 
called it, than that he should love God. Hence there was 
always an indescribable and, to me, unpleasant odor of their 
profession about them. If they knew more concerning the 
life of the world than other men, why should everything they 
said remind one of mustiness and mildew ? In a word, why 
were they not men at worst, when at best they ought to be 
more of men than other men ? And here lay the difficulty : 
by no effort could I get the face before me lo fit into the cleri- 
cal mould which I had all ready in my own mind for it. That 
was, at all events, the face of a man, in spite of waistcoat and 
depilation. I was not even surprised when, all at once, he sat 
upright in his seat, and asked me if I would join him in a 
cigar. I gladly consented. And here let me state a fact, 
which added then to my interest in my fellow-passenger, and 
will serve now to excuse the enormity of smoking in a railway 
carriage. We were going to the same place — we must be ; 
and nobody would enter that carriage to-night but the man 
who had to clean it. For, although we were shooting along 
at a terrible rate, the train would not stop to set us down, but 
would cast us loose a mile from our station ; and some min- 
utes after it had shot by like an infernal comet of darkness, 
our carriage would trot gently up to the platform, as if it had 
come from London all on its own hook — and thought nothing 
of it. 

We were a long way yet, however, from our destination. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


5 


The night grew darker and colder, and after the necessary un- 
mufiling occasioned by the cigar process, we drew our wraps 
closer about us, leaned back in our corners, and smoked away 
in silence ; the red glow of our cigars serving to light the car- 
riage nearly as well as the red nose of the neglected and half- 
extinguished lamp. For we were in a second-class carriage, a 
fact for which I leave the clergyman to apologize : it is noth- 
ing to me, for I am nobody. 

But, after all, I fear I am unjust to the Railway Company, 
for there was light enough for me to see, and in some measure 
scrutinize, the face of my fellow-passenger. I could discern a 
strong chin, and good, useful jaws ; with a firm-lipped mouth, 
and a nose more remarkable for quantity than disposition of 
mass, being rather low, and very thick. It was surmounted 
by two brilliant, kindly, black eyes. I lay in wait for his 
forehead, as if I had been a hunter, and he some peculiar 
animal that wanted killing right in the middle of it. But it 
■was some time before I was gratified with a sight of it. I did 
see it, however, and I was gratified. For when he wanted to 
throw away the end of his cigar, finding his window immov- 
able. (the frosty wind that bore the snow-flakes blowing from 
that side), and seeing that I opened mine to accommodate him, 
he moved across, and, in so doing, knocked his hat against the 
roof. As he displaced, to replace it, I had my opportunity. 
It was a splendid forehead for size every way, but chiefly for 
breadth. A kind of rugged calm rested upon it, — a sug- 
gestion of slumbering power, which it delighted me to contem- 
plate. I felt that that was the sort of man to make a 
friend of, if one had the good luck to be able. But I did not 
yet make any advance towards further acquaintance. 

My reader may, however, be desirous of knowing what kind 
of person is making so much use of the pronoun I. He may 
have the same curiosity to know hi3 fellow-traveller over the 
region of these pages, that I had to see the forehead of the cler- 
gyman. I can at least prevent any further inconvenience from 
this possible curiosity, by telling him enough to destroy his 
interest in me. 

I am an — ; well, I suppose I am an old bachelor ; not 
very far from fifty, in fact ; old enough, at all events, to he 
able to take pleasure in watching without sharing ; yet ready, 


6 


ADELA CATIICART. 


notwithstanding, when occasion offers, to take any necessary 
part in wliat may be going on. I am able, as it were, to sit 
quietly alone, and look down upon life from a second-floor win- 
dow, delighting myself with my own speculations, and weaving ! 
the various threads I gather, into webs of varying kind and 
quality. Yet, as I have already said, in another form, I am 
not the last to rush downstairs and into the street, upon occa- 
sion of an accident or a row in it, or a conflagration next door. 

I may just mention, too, that having many years ago formed 
the Swedenborgian resolution of never growing old, I am as 
yet able to flatter myself that I am likely to keep it. 

In proof of this, if further garrulity about myself can be 
pardoned, I may state that every year, as Christmas ap- 
proaches, I begin to grow young again. At least I judge so 
from the fact that a strange, mysterious pleasure, well known 
to me by this time, though little understood and very varied, 
begins to glow in my mind with the first hint, come from what 
quarter it may, whether from the church-service, or a book- 
seller’s window, that the day of all the year is at hand, — is 
climbing up from the under-world. I enjoy it like a child. 

I buy the Christmas number of every periodical I can lay my 
hands on, especially those that have pictures in them ; and, 
although I am not very fond of plum-pudding, I anticipate 
with satisfaction the roast beef and the old port that ought 
always to accompany it. And, above all things, I delight in 
listening to stories, and sometimes in telling them. 

It amuses me to find what a welcome nobody I am amongst 
young people ; for they think I take no heed of them, and 
don’t know what they are doing; when, all the time, I even 
know what they are thinking. They would wonder to know 
how often I feel exactly as they do ; only I think the feeling 
is a more earnest and beautiful thing to me than it can be to 
them yet. If I see a child crowing in his mother’s arms, I 
seem to myself to remember making precisely the same noise 
in my mother’s arms. If I see a youth and a maiden looking 
into each other’s eyes, I know what it means perhaps better 
than they do. But I say nothing. I do not even smile ; for 
my face is puckered, and I have a weakness about the eyes. 
But all this will be proof enough that I have not grown very 
old, in any bad and to-be-avoided sense, at least. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


ft 

I 

And now all the glow of the Christmas-time was at its 
height in my heart. For I was going to spend the Day, and 
a few weeks besides, with a very old friend of mine, who lived 
near the town at which we were about to arrive like a post- 
script. Where could my companion be going ? I wanted to 
know, because I hoped to meet him again somehow or other. 

I ought to have told you, kind reader, that my name is 
Smith, — actually John Smith ; but I’m none the worse for 
that ; and as I do not want to be distinguished much from 
other people, I do not feel it a hardship. 

But where was my companion going ? It could not be to 
my friend’s ; else I should have known something about him. 
It could hardly be to the clergyman’s, because the vicarage 
was small, and there was a new curate coming with his wife, 
whom it would probably have to accommodate until their own 
house was ready. It could not be to the lawyer’s on the hill, 
because there all were from home on a visit to their relations. 
It might be to Squire Vernon’s, but he was the last man likely 
to ask a clergyman to visit him ; nor would a clergyman be 
likely to find himself comfortable with the swearing old fox- 
hunter. The question must, then, for the present, remain 
unsettled. So I left it, and, looking out of the window once 
more, buried myself in Christmas fancies. 

It was now dark. We were the under half of the world. 
The sun was scorching and glowing on the other side, leaving 
us to night and frost. But the night and the frost wake the 
sunshine of a higher world in our hearts ; and who cares for 
winter weather at Christmas? I believe in the proximate 
correctness of the date of our Saviour’s birth. I believe he 
always comes in winter. And then let Winter reign without; 
Love is king within ; and Love is lord of the Winter. 

How the happy fires were glowing everywhere ! We shot 
past many a lighted cottage, and now and then a brilliant 
mansion. Inside both were hearts like our own, and faces like 
ours, with the red coming out on them, the red of joy, because 
it was Christmas. And most of them had some little feast 
toward. Is it vulgar, this feasting at Christmas ? No. It is 
the Christmas feast that justifies all feasts, as the bread and 
wine of the communion are the essence of all bread and wine, 
*f all strength and rejoicing. If the Christianity of eating i? 


8 


ADELA CATHCART. 


lost, — I will not sa y forgotten , — the true type of eating 
is to be found at the dinner-hour in the Zoological Gardens. ! 
Certain I am, that but for the love which, ever revealing itself, 
came out brightest at that first Christmas-time, there would be 
no feasting, — nay, no smiling ; no world to go careering in 
joy about its central fire ; no men and women upon it, to look 
up and rejoice. 

“ But you always look on the bright side of things. ” 

No one spoke aloud ; I heard the objection in my mind 
Could it come from the mind of my friend, — for so I already 
counted him, — opposite to me ? There was no need for that 
supposition ; I had heard the objection too often in my ears. 
And now I answered it in set, though unspoken form. 

“ Yes,” I said, “I do; for I keep in the light as much as 
I can. Let the old heathens count Darkness the womb of all 
things. I count Light the older, from the tread of whose feet 
fell the first shadow, — and that was Darkness. Darkness 
exists but by the light, and for the light.” 

“ But that is all mysticism. Look about you. The dark 
places of the earth are the habitations of cruelty. Men and 
women blaspheme God and die. How can this, then, be an 
hour for rejoicing? ” 

u They are in God’s hands. Take from me my rejoicing, 
and I am powerless to help them. It shall not destroy the 
whole bright holiday to me, that my father has given my 
brother a beating. It will do him good. He needed it some- 
how. He is looking after them.” 

Could I have spoken some of these words aloud ? For the 
eyes of the clergyman were fixed upon me from his corner, as 
if he were trying to put off his curiosity with the sop of a 
probable conjecture about me. 

“I fear he would think me a heathen,” I said to myself. 

“ But if ever there was humanity in a countenance, there it 
is.” 

It grew more and more pleasant to think of the bright fire 
and the cheerful room that awaited me. Nor was the idea of 
the table, perhaps already beginning to glitter with crystal 
and silver, altogether uninteresting to me. For I was grow- 
ing hungry. 

But the speed at which we were now going was quite com- 


ADELA CATIICART. 


9 


forting. I dropped into a reverie. I was roused from it by 
the sudden ceasing of the fierce oscillation, which had for 
some time been threatening to make a jelly of us. We were 
loose. In three minutes more we should be at Purleybridge. 

And, in three minutes more, w T e were at Purleybridge, — 
the only passengers but one who arrived at the station that 
night. A servant was waiting for me, and I followed him 
through the booking-office to the carriage destined to bear me 
to “The Swanspond,” as my friend Colonel Cathcart’s house 
was called. 

As I stepped into the carriage, I saw the clergyman walk 
by, with his carpet-bag in his hand. 

Now I knew Colonel Cathcart intimately enough to offer 
the use of his carriage to my late companion ; but, at the 
moment I was about to address him, the third passenger, of 
whom I had taken no particular notice, came between us, and 
followed me into the carriage. This occasioned a certain hes- 
itation, with which I am only too easily affected ; the footman 
shut the door ; I caught one glimpse of the clergyman turn- 
ing the corner of the station into a field path; the horses 
made a scramble ; and away I rode to the Swanspond, feeling 
as selfish as ten Pharisees. It is true, I had not spoken a 
word to him beyond accepting his invitation to smoke with 
him ; and yet I felt almost sure that we should meet again, 
and that, when we did, w r e should both be glad of it. And 
now he was carrying a carpet-bag, and I was seated in a car- 
riage and pair ! 

It -was far too dark for me to see what my new companion 
was like ; but when the light from the colonel’s hall-door 
flashed upon us as we drew up, I saw that he was a young 
man, with a certain expression in his face which a first glance 
might have taken for fearlessness and power of some sort, but 
which, notwithstanding, I felt to be rather repellant than 
otherwise. The moment the carriage-door was opened, he 
called the servant by his name, saying : — 

“When the cart comes with the luggage, send mine up 
directly. Take that now.” 

And he handed him his dressing-bag. 

He spoke in a self-approving tone, and with a drawl which 
I will not attempt to imitate, because I find all such imitation 


10 


ADELA CATIICART. 


tends to caricature ; and I want to be believed. Besides, 1 
find the production of caricature has unfailingly a bad moral 
reaction upon myself. I dare say it is not so with others, but 
with that I have nothing to do : it is one of my weaknesses. 

My worthy old friend, the colonel, met us in the hall, — 
straight, broad-shouldered, and tall, with a severe military 
expression underlying the genuine hospitality of his counte- 
nance, as if he could not get rid of a sense of duty, even 
when doing what he liked best. The door of the dining-room 
was partly open, and from it came the red glow of a splendid 
fire, the chink of encountering glass and metal, and, best of 
all, the pop of a cork. 

“ Would you like to go upstairs, Smith, or will you have 
a glass of wine first? How do you do, Percy? ” 

“ Thank you ; I’ll go to my room at once,” I said. 

“ You’ll find a fire there, I know. Having no regiment 
now, I look after my servants. Mind you make use of them. 
I can’t find enough of work for them.” 

He left me, and again addressed the youth, who had by this 
time got out of his great-coat, and, cold as it was, stood look- 
ing at his hands by the hall-lamp. As I moved away, I 
heard him say, in a careless tone : — 

“ And how’s Adela, uncle? ” 

The reply did not reach me, but I knew now who the young 
fellow was. 

Hearing a kind of human grunt behind me. I turned and 
saw that I was followed by the butler ; and, by a kind of intui- 
tion, I knew that this grunt was a remark, — an inarticulate 
one, true, but not the less to the point on that account. I 
knew that he had been in the dining-room by the pop I had 
heard ; and I knew by the grunt that he had heard his mas- 
ter’s observation about his servants. 

Come, Beeves,” I said, “ I don’t want your help. You’ve 
got plenty to do, you know, at dinner-time ; and your master 
is rather hard upon you, — isn’t he? ” 

I knew the man, of course. 

“Well, Mr. Smith, master is the best master in the coun- 
try, he is. But he don’t know what work is, he don't” 

“Well, go to your work, and never mind me. I know 
every turn in the house as well as yourself. Beeves,” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


11 


“ No, Mr. Smith ; I’ll attend to you, if you please. Mr. 
Percy will take care of his- self. There’s no fear of him. 
But you’re my business. You are sure to give a man a kind 
word who does his best to please you.” 

“ Why, Beeves, I think that is the least a man can do.” 

“It’s the most too, sir; and some people think it’s too 
much.” 

I saw that the man was hurt, and sought to soothe him. 

“ You and I are old friends, at least, Beeves.” 

“Yes, Mr. Smith. Money won’t do’t, sir. My master 
gives good wages, and I’m quite independing of visitors. But 
when a gentleman says to me, ‘Beeves, I’m obliged to you,’ 
why, then, Mr. Smith, you feels at one and the same time, that 
he’s a gentleman, and that you aint a boot-jack or a coal-scut- 
tle. It’s the sentiman, Mr. Smith. If he despises us, why, 
we despises him. And we don’t like waiting on a gentleman 
as aint a gentleman. Bing the bell, Mr. Smith, when you 
want anythink, and Til attend to you.” 

He had been twenty years in the colonel’s service. He was 
not an old soldier, yet had a thorough esprit de corps , look- 
ing upon service as an honorable profession. In this he was 
not only right, but had a vast advantage over everybody 
whose profession is not sufficiently honorable for his ambition. 
All such must fed degraded. Beeves was fifty ; and, happily 
for his opinion of his profession, had never been to London. 

And the colonel was the best of masters ; for, because he 
ruled well, every word of kindness told. It is with servants 
as with children and with horses, — it is of no use caressing 
them unless they know that you mean them to go. 

When the dinner-bell rang, I proceeded to the drawing- 
room. The colonel was there, and I thought for a moment 
that he was alone. But I soon saw that a couch by the fire 
was occupied by his daughter, the Adela after whose health I 
had heard young Percy Cathcart inquiring. She was our 
hostess, for Mrs. Cathcart had been dead for many years, and 
Adela had been her only child. I approached to pay my re- 
spects ; but as soon as I got near enough to see her face, I 
turned involuntarily to her father, and said : — 

“ Cathcart, you never told me of this ! ” 

He made me no reply ; but I saw the long, stern upper lip 


12 


ADELA CATHCART. 


twitching convulsively. I turned again to Adela, who tried 
to smile — with precisely the effect of a momentary gleam of 
sunshine upon a cold, leafless, and wet landscape. 

“ Adela, my dear, what is the matter ? ” 

“ I don’t know, uncle.” 

She had called me unc.e since ever she had begun to speak, 
which must have been nearly twenty years ago. 

I stood and looked at her. Her face was pale and thin, and 
her eyes were large, and yet sleepy. I may say at once that 
she had dark eyes and a sweet face ; and that is all the de- 
scription I mean to give of her. I had been accustomed to see 
that face, if not rosy, yet plump and healthy ; and those eyes 
with plenty of light for themselves, and some to spare for other 
people. But it was neither her wan look nor her dull eyes 
that distressed me ; it was the expression of her face. It was 
very sad to look at ; but it was not so much sadness as utter 
and careless hopelessness that it expressed. 

“ Have you any pain, Adela? ” I asked. 

“ No,” she answered. 

“ But you feel ill ? ” 

a Vpq ” 

“How?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

And as she spoke, she tapped with one finger on the edge 
of the couvre-pied which was thrown over her, and gave a 
sigh as if her very heart was weary of everything. 

“ Shall you come down to dinner with us? ” 

“ Yes, uncle; I suppose I must.” 

“ If you would rather have your dinner sent up, my love 
— ” began her father. 

“ Oh ! no. It is all the same to me.' I may as well go 
down.” 

My young companion of the carriage now entered, got up 
expensively. He, too, looked shocked when he saw her. 

“Why, Addie !” he said. 

But she received him with perfect indifference, just lifting 
one cold hand towards his, and then letting it fall again where 
it had lain before. Percy looked a little mortified ; in fact, 
more mortified now than sorry ; turned away, and stared at 
the fire. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


13 


Every time I open my mouth in a drawing-room before din- 
ner, I am aware of an amount of self-denial worthy of a forlorn 
hope. Yet the silence was so awkward now, that I felt I 
must make an effort to say something ; and the more original 
the remark the better I felt it would be for us all. But, with 
the best intentions, all I could effect was to turn towards Mr. 
Percy and say : — 

“ Bather cold for travelling, is it not? ” 

“ Those foot-warmers are capital things, though,” he an- 
swered. “ Mine was jolly hot. Might have roasted a potato 
on it, by J ove ! ” 

“I came in a second-class carriage,” I replied; “and they 
are too cold to need a foot- warmer.” 

He gave a shrug with his shoulders, as if he had suddenly 
found himself in low company, and must make the best of it. 
But he offered no further remark. 

Beeves announced dinner. 

“ Will you take Adela, Mr. Smith? ” said the colonel. 

“ 1 think I won’t go, after all, papa, if you don’t mind. 1 
don’t want any dinner.” 

“Very well, my dear,” began her father, hut could not 
help showing his distress; perceiving which, Adela rose in- 
stantly from her couch, put her arm in his, and led the way 
to the dining-room. Percy and I followed. 

“What can be the matter with the girl?” thought I. 
“ She used to be merry enough. Some love affair, I shouldn’t 
wonder. I’ve never heard of any. I know her father favors 
that puppy Percy; but I don’t think she is dying for him.” 

It was the dreariest Christmas Eve I had ever spent. The fire 
was bright ; the dishes were excellent ; the wine was thorough ; 
the host was hospitable ; the servants were attentive ; and yet the 
dinner was as gloomy as if we had all known it to be the last we 
should ever eat together. If a ghost had been sitting in its 
shroud at the head of the table, instead of Adela, it could 
hardly have cast a greater chill over the guests. She did her 
duty well enough ; but she did not look it ; and the charities 
which occasioned her no pleasure in the administration could 
hardly occasion us much in the reception. 

As soon as she had left the room, Percy broke out, with 
more emphasis than politeness : — 


14 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ What the devil’s the matter with Adela, uncle ? ” 

“ Indeed, I can’t tell, my boy,” answered the colonel, with 
more kindness than the form of the question deserved. 

“ Have you no conjecture on the subject ? ” I asked. 

“ None. I have tried hard to find out ; but I have altogethei 
failed. She tells me there is nothing the matter with her, 
only she is so tired. Wbat has she to tire her ? ” 

“ If she is tired inside first, everything will tire her.” 

“ I wish you would try to find out, Smith.” 

“I will.” 

** Her mother died of a decline.” 

“ I know. Have you had no advice? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! Dr. Wade is giving her steel-wine, and qui- 
nine, and all that sort of thing. For my part, I don’t believe 
in their medicines. Certainly they don’t do her any good.” 

“ Is her chest affected, — does he say? ” 

11 He says not; but I believe he knows no more about the 
state of her chest than he does about the other side of the 
moon. He’s a stupid old fool. He comes here for his fees, 
and he has them.” 

“ Why don’t you call in another, if you are not satisfied ? ” 

“ Why, my dear fellow, they’re all the same in this infernal 
old place. I believe they’ve all embalmed themselves, and are 
going by clock-work. They and the clergy make sad fools of 
us. But we make worse fools of ourselves to have them about 
us. To be sure, they see that everything is proper. The 
doctor makes sure that we are dead before we are buried, and 
the parson that we are buried after we are dead. About the 
resurrection I suspect he knows as much as we do. He goes 
by book.” 

In his perplexity and sorrow, the poor colonel was irritable 
and unjust. I saw that it would be better to suggest than to 
reason. And I partly took the homoeopathic system, — the only 
one on which mental distress, at least, can be treated with any 
advantage. 

“ Certainly,” I said, “the medical profession has plenty of 
men in it who live on humanity, like the very diseases they 
attempt to cure. And plenty of the clergy find the Church a 
tolerably profitable investment. The reading of the absolution 
is as productive to them now, as it was to the pardon-sellers of 


ADELA CATHCART. 


15 


old. But surely, colonel, you won’t huddle them all up to- 
gether in one shapeless mass of condemnation? ” 

“ You always were right, Smith, and I’m a fool, as usual 
Percy, my boy, what’s going on at Somerset House? ” 

“ The river, uncle.’’ 

“ Nothing else? ” 

“ Well — I don’t know. Nothing much. It’s horribly 
slow ! ” 

“ I’m afraid you won’t find this much better. But you 
must take care of yourself.” 

“ I've made that a branch of special study, uncle. I flatter 
myself I can do that.” 

Colonel Cathcart laughed. Percy was the son of his only 
brother, who had died young, and he had an especial affection 
for him. And where the honest old man loved, he could see 
no harm; for he reasoned something in this way: “He must 
be all right, or how could I like him as I do? ” But Percy 
was a commonplace, selfish fellow, — of that I was convinced, 
— whatever his other qualities, good or bad, might be ; and I 
sincerely hoped that any designs he might have of marrying 
his cousin might prove a3 vain as his late infantile passion for 
the moon. For I beg to assure my readers that the circum- 
stances in which I have introduced Adela Cathcart are no more 
fair to her real character than my lady readers would consider 
the effect of a lamp-shade of bottle-green true in its presenta- 
tion of their complexion. 

We did not sit long over our wine. When we went up to 
the drawing-room, Adela was not there, nor did she make her 
appearance again that evening. For a little while we tried to 
talk ; but, after many failures, I yielded and withdrew on the 
score of fatigue ; no doubt relieving the mind of my old friend 
by doing so, for he had severe ideas of the duty of a host as 
well as of a soldier, and to these ideas he found it at present 
impossible to elevate the tone of his behavior. 

When I reached my own room, I threw myself into the 
easiest of arm-chairs, and began to reflect. 

u John Smith,” I said, “ this i3 likely to be as uncomfortable 
a Christmas-tide, as you, with your all but ubiquity, have ever 
had the opportunity of passing. Nevertheless, please to re- 
member a resolution you came to once upon a time, — that, as you 


16 


ADELA CATHCART. 


were nobod y, so you would be nobody, — and see if you caa I 
make yourself useful. — What can be the matter with Adela? ” 

I sat and reflected for a long time ; for during my life I i 
had had many opportunities of observation, and amongst other f 
cases that had interested me I had seen some not unlike the 
present. The fact was, that as everybody counted me nobody, ; 
I had taken full advantage of my conceded nonentity, which, | 
like J ack the Giant-killer’s coat of darkness, enabled me to 1 
learn much that would otherwise have escaped me. My re- 
flections on my observations, however, did not lead me to any 
further or more practical conclusion, just yet, than that other 
and better advice ought to be called in. 

Having administered this sedative sop to my restless practi- 
calness, I went to bed and to sleep. 


CHAPTER II. 

CHURCH. 

Adela did not make her appearance at the breakfast-Uble 
next morning, although it was the morning of Christmas Uay. 
And no one who had seen her at dinner on Christmas eve, 
would have expected to see her at breakfast on Christmas morn. 
Yet although her absence was rather a relief, such a gloom 
occupied her place that our party was anything but cheerful. 
But the world about us was happy enough, not merely at its 
unseen heart of fire, but on its wintered countenance, — evi- 
dently to all men. It was not “ to hide her guilty front,” as 
Milton says, in the first two — and the least worthy — stanzas 
on the Nativity, that the earth wooed the gentle air for innocent, 
snow, but to put on the best smile and the loveliest dress that 
the cold time and her suffering state would allow, in welcome 
of the Lord of the snow and the summer. I thought of the 
lines from Crashaw’s “Hymn of the Nativity,” — Crasbaw, 
who always suggested to me Shelley turned a Catholic Piiest; 


ADELA CATHCART. 


1 


• I saw the curled drops, soft and slow, 

Come hovering o’er the place’s head, 

Offering their whitest sheets of snow, 

To furnish the fair infant’s bed. 

Forbear, said I, be not too bold : 

Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold.” 

And as the sun shone rosy with mist, I naturally though 
of the next following stanza of the same hymn : — 


“ I saw the obsequious seraphim 

Their rosy fleece of fire bestow ; 

For well they now can spare their wings, 

Since heaven itself lies here below. 

Well done i said I ; but are you sure 
Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?” 

Adela, pale face and all, was down in time for church ; and 
she and the colonel and I walked to it together by the meadow 
path, where, on each side, the green grass was peeping up 
| through the glittering frost. For the colonel, notwithstanding 
his last night’s outbreak upon the clergy, had a profound 
respect for them, and considered church-going one of those 
' military duties which belonged to every honest soldier and 
gentleman. Percy had found employment elsewhere. 

It was a blessed little church that, standing in a little 
meadow, church-yard, with a low, strong ancient tower, and 
I great buttresses that put one in mind of the rock of ages, and 
a mighty still river that flowed past the tower end, and a pic- 
! turesque, straggling, well-to-do parsonage at the chancel end. 
The church was nearly covered with ivy, and looked as if it 
had grown out of the church-yard, to be ready for the poor 
folks, as soon as they got up again, to praise God in. But it 
had stood a long time, and none of them came ; and the praise 
of the living must be a poor thing to the praise of the dead, 
notwithstanding all that the Psalmist says. So the church 
got disheartened, and drooped, and now looked very old and 
gray-headed. It could not get itself filled with praise enough. 
And into this old, and quaint, and weary but stout-hearted 
church, we went that bright winter morning, to hear about a 
baby. My heart was full enough before I left it. 

Old Mr. Venables read the service with a voice and manner 
far more memorial of departed dinners than of joys to come : 


18 


ADELA CATIICAfr. 


but I sat, — little heeding the service. I confess, — with my 
mind full of thoughts that made me glad. 

Now all my glad thoughts came to me through a hole in 
the tower-door. For the door was far in a shadowy retreat, 
and in the irregular, lozenge-shaped hole in it there was a 
piece of coarse thick glass of a deep yellow. And through ! 
this yellow glass the sun shone. And the cold shine of the 
winter sun was changed into the warm glory of summer by the ! 
magic of that bit of glass. 

Now, when I saw the glow first, I thought, without thinking, 
that it came from some inner place, some shrine of old, or 
some ancient tomb in the chancel of the church, — forgetting 
the points of the compass, — where one might pray as in the 
penetralia of the temple; and I gazed on it as the pilgrim 
might gaze upon the lamp-light oozing from the cavern of the 
Holy Sepulchre. But some one opened the door, and the 
clear light of the Christmas morn broke upon the pavement, 
and swept away the summer splendor. The door was to the 
outside. And I said to myself : All the doors that lead 
inwards to the secret place of the Most High are doors out- 
wards, — out of self, — out of smallness, — out of wrong. 
And these were some of the thoughts that came to me through ’ 
the hole in the door, and made me forget the service, which 
Mr. Venables mumbled like a nicely cooked sweetbread. 

But another voice broke the film that shrouded the ears of 
my brain, and the words became inspired and alive, and I for- 
got my own thoughts in listening to the Holy Book. For is 
not the voice of every loving spirit a fresh inspiration to the 
dead letter? With a voice other than this, does it not kill? 
And I thought I had heard the voice before, but where I 
sat I could not see the Communion Table. At length the 
preacher ascended the pulpit stairs, and, to my delight and 
the rousing of an altogether unwonted expectation, who should 
it be but my fellow-traveller of last night ! 

He had a look of having something to say ; and I immedi- 
ately felt that I had something to hear. Having read hia 
text, which I forget, the broad-browed man began with some- 
thing like this : — 

“It is not the high summer alone that is God’s. The 
winter also is his. And into his winter he came to visit u& 


ADELA CATHCART. 


19 


And all man’s winters are his, — the winter of our poverty, 
the winter of our sorrow, the winter of our unhappiness — 
even the ‘ winter of our discontent.’ ” 

I stole a glance at Adela. Her large eyes were fixed on 
the preacher. 

“ Winter,” he went on, “does not belong to death, although 
the outside of it looks like death. Beneath the snow the 
grass is growing. Below the frost the roots are warm and 
alive. Winter is only a spring too weak and feeble for us to 
see that it is living. The cold does for all things what the 
gardener has sometimes to do for valuable trees, — he must half 
kill them before they will bear any fruit. Winter is in truth 
the small beginnings of the spring.” 

I glanced at Adela again ; and still her eyes were fastened 
on the speaker. 

“ The winter is the childhood of the year. Into this child- 
hood of the year came the child Jesus; and into this child- 
hood of the year must we all descend. It is as if God spoke 
to each of us according to our need : My son, my daughter, 
you are giowing old and cunning; you must grow a child 
again, with my Son, this blessed birth-time. You are growing 
old and selfish ; you must become a child. You are growing 
old and careful ; you must become a child. You are growing 
old and distrustful ; you must become a child. You are grow- 
ing old, and petty, and weak, and foolish ; you must become a 
child, — my child, like the baby there, that strong sunrise of 
faith and hope and love, lying in his mother’s arms in the 
stable. 

“ But one may say to me : ‘ You are talking in a dream. 
The Son of God is a child no longer. lie is the King of 
Heaven.’ True, my friends. But He who is the Unchange- 
able could never become anything that He was not always, 
for that would be to change. He is as much a child now as 
ever lie was. When he became a child, it was only to show 
us by itself, that we might understand it better, what he was 
always in his deepest nature. And when he was a child, ho 
was not less the King of Heaven ; for it is in virtue of his 
childhood, of his sonship, that he is Lord of Heaven and of 
Earth, — 1 for of such ’ — namely, of children — 1 is the king- 
dom of heaven.’ And, therefore, when we think of the bab^ 


20 


A DEL A CATHCART. 


now, it is still of the Son of man, of the King of men, that 
we think. And all the feelings that the thought of that babe 
can wake in us are as true now as they were on that first 
Christmas day, when Mary covered from the cold his little 
naked feet, ere long to be w r ashed with the tears of repentant 
women, and nailed by the hands of thoughtless men. w T ho knew 
not what they did, to the cross of fainting, and desolation, and 
death.” 

Adela was hiding her face now. 

“ So, my friends, let us be children this Christmas. Of 
course, when I say to any one, £ You must be like a child,’ 1 
mean a good child. A naughty child is not a child as long as 
his naughtiness lasts. He is not what God meant when he 
said, £ I will make a child.’ Think of the best child you 
know, — the one who has filled you with most admiration. It 
is his child-likeness that has so delighted you. It is because 
he is so true to the child-nature that you admire him. Jesus 
is like that child. You must be like that child. But you 
cannot help knowing some faults in him, — some things that 
are like ill-grown men and women. Jesus is not like him, 
there. Think of the best child you can imagine ; nay, think 
of a better than you can imagine, — of the one that God thinks 
of when he invents a child in the depths of his fatherhood : such 
childlike men and women must you one day become ; and what 
day better to begin, than this blessed Christmas morn ? Let 
such a child be born in your hearts this day. Take the child 
Jesus to your bosoms, into your very souls, and let him grow 
there till he is one with your every thought, and purpose, and 
hope. As a good child born in a family will make the family 
good ; so J esus, born into the world, will make the world 
good at last. And this perfect child, born in your hearts, 
will make your hearts good ; and that is God’s best gift to 
you. 

i£ Then be happy this Christmas day ; for to you a child i3 
born. Childless women, this infant is yours — wives or 
maidens. Fathers and mothers, he is your first-born, and he 
will save his brethren. Eat and drink, and be merry and 
kind, for the love of God is the source of all joy and all good 
things, and this love is present in the child Jesus. Now, t« 
God the Father, etc ” 


ADELA CATIICART. 


21 


<c 0 my baby Lord ! ” I said in my heart ; for the clergy- 
man had forgotten me, and said nothing about us old bache- 
lors. 

Of course this is but the substance of the sermon ; and as, 
although I came to know him well before many days were 
over, he never lent me his manuscript, — indeed, I doubt if he 
had any, — my report must have lost something of his nervous 
strength, and be diluted with the weakness of my style. 

Although I had been attending so well to the sermon, how- 
ever, my eyes had now and then wandered, not only to Adela’s 
face, but all over the church as well ; and I could not help 
observing, a few pillars off, and partly round a corner, the face 
of a young man, — well, he was about thirty, I should guess, — 
out of which looked a pair of well-opened hazel eyes, with 
rather notable eyelashes. Not that I, with my own weak pair 
of washed-out gray, could see the eyelashes at that distance, 
but I judged it must be their length that gave a kind of femi- 
nine cast to the outline of the eyes. Nor should I have 
noticed the face itself much, had it not seemed to me that those 
eyes were pursuing a very thievish course ; for, by the fact 
that, as often as I looked their way, I saw the motion of their 
withdrawal, I concluded that they were stealing glances at, 
certainly not from, my adopted niece, Adela. This made me 
look at the face more attentively. I found it a fine, frank, 
brown, country-looking face. Could it have anything to do 
with Adela’s condition ? Absurd ! How could such health 
and ruddy life have anything to do with the worn pallor of her 
countenance? Nor did a single glance on the part of Adela 
reveal that she was aware of the existence of the neighboring 
observatory. I dismissed the idea. And I was right, as time 
showed. 

We remained to the Communion. When that was over, we 
walked out of the old dark-roofed church, Adela looking as 
sad as ever, into the bright, cold sunshine, which wrought no 
change on her demeanor. How could it, if the sun of righte- 
ousness, even, had failed for the time? And there, in the 
church-yard, we found Percy, standing astride of an infant’s 
grave, with his hands in his trowser-pockets, and an air of 
condescending satisfaction on his countenance, which seemed 
to say to the dead beneath him : “ Pray, don’t apologize. I 


22 


ADELA CATHCART. 


know you are disagreeable ; but you can't help it, you know ; ” 
and to the living coming out of church : “ Well, have you had 
your little whim out ? ” 

But what he did say was to Adela : — 

“ A merry Christmas to you, Addie ! Won’t you lean on 
me? You don’t look very stunning.” 

But her sole answer was to take my arm ; and so we walked 
towards the Swanspond. 

“ I suppose that’s what they call ‘Broad Church,’ ” said 
the colonel. 

“ Generally speaking, I prefer breadth,” I answered, vaguely. 
“ Do you think that’s ‘ Broad Church ’ ? ” 

“ Oh ! I don’t know. I suppose it’s all right. He ran me 
through, anyhow.” 

“ I hope it is all right,” I answered. “ It suits me.” 

“ Well, I’m sure you know ten times better than I do. He 
seems a right sort of man, whatever sort of clergyman he may 
be.” 

“Who is he, — can you tell me?” 

“Why, don’t you know? That’s our new curate, Mr. 
Armstrong.” 

“ Curate! ” I exclaimed. “ A man like that ! And at his 
years too ! He must be forty. You astonish me! ” 

“ Well, I don’t know. He may be forty. He is our cu- 
rate ; that is all I can answer for.” 

“ He was my companion in the train last night.” 

“ Ah, that accounts for it. You had some talk with him, 
and found him out? I believe he is a superior sort of man, 
too. Old Mr. Venables seems to like him.” 

“ All the talk I have had with him passed between pulpit 
and pew this morning,” I replied; “for the only words that 
we exchanged last night were, ‘ Will you join me in a cigar ? ’ 
from him, and ‘With much pleasure,’ from me.” 

“ Then, upon my life, I can’t see what you think remarkable 
in his bein£ a curate. Though I confess, as I said before, he 
ran me through the body. I'm rather soft-hearted, I believe, 
since Addie’s illness.” 

He gave her a hasty glance. But she took no notice of what 
he had said ; and, indeed, seemed to have taken no notice of 
the conversation, — to which Percy had shown an equal 


ADELA CATIICART. 


23 


amount of indifference. A very different indifference seemed 
the only bond between them. 

When we reached home, we found lunch ready for us, and 
after waiting a few minutes for Adela, but in vain, we seated 
ourselves at the table. 

“Awfully like Sunday, and a cold dinner, uncle ! ” re- 
marked Percy. 

“ We’ll make up for that, my boy, when dinner-time comes.” 

“ You don’t like Sunday, then, Mr. Percy? ” I said. 

“A horrid bore,” he answered. “ My old mother made me 
hate it. We had to go to church twice ; and that was even 
worse than her veal-broth. But the worst of it is, I can’t get 
it out of my head that I ought to be there, even when I’m 
driving tandem to Richmond.” 

“ Ah ! your mother will be with us on Sunday, I hope, 
Percy.” 

“ Good heavens, uncle ! Do you know what you are about? 
My mother here ! I’ll just ring the bell, and tell James to 
pack my traps. I won’t stand it. I can’t. Indeed I can’t.” 

He rose as he spoke. His uncle caught him by the arm, 
laughing, and made him sit down again ; which he did with 
real or pretended reluctance. 

“We’ll take care of you, Percy. Nevermind. Don’t be 
a fool,” he added, seeing the evident annoyance of the young 
fellow. 

“ Well, uncle, you ought to have known better,” said Percy, 
sulkily, as, yielding, he resumed his seat, and poured himself 
out a bumper of claret, by way of consolation. 

He had not been much of a companion before ; now he made 
himself almost as unpleasant as a young man could be, and 
that is saying a great deal. One, certainly, had need to have 
found something beautiful at church, for here was the prospect 
of as wretched a Christmas dinner as one could ever wish to 
avoid. 

When Percy had drunk another bumper of claret, he rose 
and left the room, and my host, turning to me, said : — 

“ I fear, Smith, you will have anything but a merry Christ- 
mas, this year. I hoped the sight of you would cheer up poor 
Adela, and set us all right. And now Percy’s out of humor 
at the thought of his mother coming, and I’m sure I don’t 


24 


ADELA CATHCART. 


know what’s to be done. We shall sit over our dinner to-day 
like four crows over a carcass. It’s very good of you to stop.” 

“ Oh ! never mind me,” I said. “ I, too, can take care of 
myself. But has Adela no companions of her own age? ” 

“ None but Percy. And I am afraid she has got tired of 
him. He’s a good fellow, though a bit of a puppy. That’ll 
wear off. I wish he would take a fancy to the army, now.” 

I made no reply, but I thought the more. It seemed to me 
that to get tired of Percy was the most natural proceeding 
that could be adopted with regard to him and all about *him. 

But men judge men — and women, women — hardly. 

“I’ll tell you what I will do,” said the colonel. “ I will 
ask Mr. Bloomfield, the school-master, and his wife, to dine 
with us. It's no use asking anybody else that I can think of. 
But they have no family, and I dare say they can put off their 
own Christmas dinner till to-morrow. They have but one maid, 
and she can dine with our servants. They are very respectable 
people, I assure you.” 

The colonel always considered his plans thoroughly, and then 
acted on them at once. He rose. 

“ A capital idea! ” I said, as he disappeared. I went up to 
look for Adela. She was not in the drawing-room. I went up 
again, and tapped at the door of her room. 

“ Come in,” she said, in a listless voice. 

I entered. 

“How are you now, Adela? ” I asked. 

“ Thank you, uncle,” was all her reply. 

“What is the matter with you, my child?” I said, and 
drew a chair near hers. She was half reclining, with a book 
lying upside down on her knee. 

“ I would tell you at once, uncle, if I knew,” she answered 
very sweetly, but as sadly. “I believe I am dying; but of 
what I have not the smallest idea.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” I said. “ You’re not dying.” 

“ You need not think to comfort me that way, uncle ; for I 
think I would rather die than not.” 

“ Is there anything you would like? ” 

“ Nothing. There is nothing worth liking, but sleep.” 

“ Don’t you sleep at night? ” 


ADELA CATnCART. 


25 


weeks ago. I woke suddenly one morning, very early, — I 
think about three o’clock, — with an overpowering sense of 
blackness and misery. Everything I thought of seemed to 
have a core of wretchedness in it. I fought with the feeling 
as well as I could, and got to sleep again. But the effect of 
it did not leave me next day. I said to myself : 1 They say 
“ morning thoughts are true.” What if this should be the 
true way of looking at things?’ And everything became 
gray and dismal about me. Next morning it was just the 
same. It was as if I had waked in the middle of some chaos 
over which God had never said : ‘ Let there be light.’ And 
the next day was worse. I began to see the bad in everything, 
— wrong motives, and self-love, and pretence, and every- 
thing mean and low. And so it has gone on ever since. I 
wake wretched every morning. I am crowded with wretched, 
if not wicked, thoughts, all day. Nothing seems worth any- 
thing. I don’t care for anything.” 

“ But you love somebody ? n 

“ I hope I love my father. I don’t know. I don’t feel as 
if I did.” 

“And there’s your cousin Percy.” I confess this was a 
feeler I put out. 

“ Percy’s a fool ! ” she said, with some show of indignation, 
which I hailed, for more reasons than one. 

“ But you enjoyed the sermon this morning, did you not? ” 

“ I don’t know. I thought it very poetical and very 
pretty ; but whether it was true, — how could I tell ? I didn't 
care. The baby he spoke about was nothing to me. I didn’t 
love him, or want to hear about him. Don’t you think me a 
brute, uncle ? ” 

“ No, I don’t. I think you are ill. And I think we shall 
find something that will do you good; but I can’t tell yet 
what. You will dine with us, won't you?” 

“ Oh ! yes, if you and papa wish it.” 

“ Of course we do. He is just gone to ask Mr. and Mrs. 
Bloomfield to dine with us.” 

“Oh!” 

“ You don’t mind, do you ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! They are nice people. I like them both.” 

“ Well, I will leave you, my child. Sleep if you can 


26 


ADELA CATHCART. 


will go and walk in the garden, and think what can be done 
for my little girl.” 

“ Thank you, uncle. But you can’t do me any good. 
What if this should be the true way of things ? It is better to 
know it, if it is.” 

“ Disease couldn’t make a sun in the heavens. But it 
could make a man blind, that he could not see it.” 

“ I don’t understand you.” 

“ Never mind. It's of no consequence whether you do or 
not. When you see light again, you will believe in it. For 
light compels faith.” 

“ I believe in you, uncle ; I do.” 

“ Thank you, my dear. Good-by.” 

I went round by the stables, and there found the colonel, 
talking to his groom. He had returned already from his call, 
and the Bloom fields were coming. I met Percy next, saun- 
tering about, with a huge cigar in his mouth. 

“ The Bloomfields are coming to dinner, Mr. Percy,” I 
said. 

“ Who are they? ” 

“The school-master and his wife.” 

“Just like that precious old uncle of mine! Why the 
deuce did he ask me this Christmas ? I tell you what, Mr. 
Smith, — I can’t stand it. There’s nothing, not even cards, 
to amuse a fellow. And when my mother comes, it will be 
ten times worse. I’ll cut and run for it.” 

“ Oh, no, you won’t,” I said. But I heartily wished he 
would. I confess the insincerity, and am sorry for it. 

“ But what the devil does my mother want, coming here? ” 

“ I haven’t the pleasure of knowing your mother, so I can* 
not tell what the devil she can want, coming here.” 

“ Humph ! ” 

He walked away. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


27 


CHAPTER III. 

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield arrived ; the former a benevo- 
lent, gray-haired man, with a large nose and small mouth, yet 
with nothing of the foolish look which often accompanies such 
a malconformation ; and the latter a nice-looking little body, 
middle-aged, rather more; with half-gray curls, and a cap 
with black ribbons. Indeed, they were both in mourning. 
Mr. Bloomfield bore himself with a kind of unworldly grace, 
and Mrs. Bloomfield with a kind of sweet primness. The 
school-master was inclined to be talkative ; nor was his wife 
behind him; and that was just what we wanted. 

“I am sorry to see you in mourning,” said the colonel to 
Mr. Bloomfield, during dessert. “I trust it is for no near 
relative.” 

“No relative at all, sir. But a boy of mine, to whom, 
through God’s grace, I did a good turn once, and whom, as a 
consequence, I loved ever after.” 

“Tell Colonel Cathcart the story, James,” said his wife. 
“It can do no harm to anybody now; and you needn’t men- 
tion names, you know. You would like to hear it, wouldn’t 
you, sir? ” 

“ Very much indeed,” answered the colonel. 

“ Well, sir,” began the school-master, there’s “ not much in 
it to you, I fear ; though there was a good deal to him and 
me. I was usher in a school at Peckham once. I was but a 
lad, but I tried to do my duty ; and the first part of my duty 
seemed to me to take care of the characters of the boys. So 
I tried to understand them all, and their ways of looking at 
things, and thinking about them. 

“ One day, to the horror of the masters, it was discovered 
that a watch belonging to one of the boys had been stolen. 


28 


ADELA CATHCART. 


The hoy who had lost it was making a dreadful fuss about 
it, and declaring he would tell the police, and set them to find i 
it. The moment I heard of it, my suspicion fell, half by | 
knowledge, half by instinct, upon a certain boy. He was one I 
of the most gentlemanly boys in the school ; but there was a 
look of cunning in the corner of his eye, and a look of greed in ; 
the corner of his mouth, which now and then came out clear i; 
enough to me. Well, sir, I pondered for a few moments what 
I shotfld do. I wanted to avoid calling any attention to him; 1 
so I contrived to make the worst of him in the Latin class, — 
he was not a bad scholar, — and so keep him in when the rest 
went to play. As soon as they were gone, I took him into my 
own room, and said to him, ‘ Fred, my boy, you knew your 
lesson well enough : but I wanted you here. You stole Sim- 1 
mons’ watch.’ ” 

“You had better mention no names, Mr Bloomfield,” in- 
terrupted his wife. 

“ I beg your pardon, my dear. But it doesn’t matter, j 
Simmons was eaten by a tiger, ten years ago. And I hope he 
agreed with him, for he never did with anybody else I ever 1 
heard of. lie was the worst boy I ever knew. 1 You stole 

Simmons’ watch. Where is it?’ He fell on his knees, as j 

white as a sheet. 1 1 sold it,’ he said, in a voice choked with 
terror. £ God help you, my boy ! ’ I exclaimed. He burst j 

out crying. 1 Where did you sell it ? ’ He told me. 1 Where’s ' 

the money you got for it? ’ — 1 That’s all I have left,’ he an- 
swered, pulling out a small handful of shillings and half- ' 
crowns. 1 Give it me,’ I said. He gave it me at once. ‘ Now 
you go to your lesson, and hold your tongue.’ I got a sover- 
eign of my own to make up the sum, — I could ill spare it, 
sir, but the boy could worse spare his character, — and I hur- 
ried off to the place where he had sold the watch. To avoid 
scandal, I was forced to pay the man the whole price, though 
I dare say an older man would have managed better. At all 
events, I brought it home. I contrived to put it in the boy’s 
own box, so that the whole affair should appear to have been 
only a trick, and then I gave the culprit a very serious talk- 
ing-to. He never did anything of the sort again, and died an 
honorable man and a good officer, only three months ago, in 
India. A thousand times over did he repay me the money I 


ADELA CATIICART. 


29 


had spent for him, and he left me this gold watch in his will, — 
a memorial, not so much of his fault as of his deliverance from 
some of its natural consequences . 5 J 

The school-master pulled out the watch as he spoke, and we 
all looked at it with respect. 

It was a simple story and simply told. But I was pleased 
to see that Adela took some interest in it. I remembered that, 
as a child, she had always liked better to be told a story than 
to have any other amusement whatever. And many a story I 
had had to coin on the spur of the moment for the satisfaction' 
of her childish avidity for that kind of mental bull’s eye. 

When we gentlemen were left alone, and the servants had 
withdrawn, Mr. Bloomfield said to our host : — 

“I am sorry to see Miss Catbcart looking so far from well, 
colonel. I hope you have good advice for her.” 

“ Dr. Wade has been attending her for some time, but I 
don’t think he’s doing her any good.” 

“ Don’t you think it might be well to get the new doctor to 
see her? He’s quite a remarkable man, I assure you.” 

“ What ! The young fellow that goes flying about the coun- 
try in boots and breeches? ” 

“ Well, I suppose that is the man I mean. He’s not so 
very young though, — he’s thirty at least. And for the boots 
and breeches, — I asked him once, in a joking way, whether 
he did not think them rather unprofessional. But he told me 
he saved ever so much time in open weather by going across 
the country. ‘And,’ said he, c if I can see patients sooner, 
and more of them, in that way, I think it is quite professional. 
The other day,’ he said, ‘ I was sent for, and I went straight 
as the crow flies, and I beat a little baby only by five minutes 
after all.’ Of course after that there was nothing more to 
say.” 

“ He has very queer notions, hasn’t he? ” 

u Y:s, he has, for a medical man. He goes to church, for 
instance.” 

“ I don’t count that a fault.” 

n Well, neither do I. Rather the contrary. But one of 
the profession here says it is for the sake of being called out 
in the middle of the service.” 


30 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“ Oh ! that is stale. I don’t think he would find that 
answer. But it is a pity he is not married.” 

“ So it is. I wish he were But that is a fault that may 
be remedied some day. One thing I know about him is, that i 
when I called him in to see one of my boarders, he sat by his 
bedside half an hour, watching him, and then went away with- 
out giving him any medicine.” 

“ I don’t see the good of that. What do you make of that? 

I call it very odd.” 

“ He said to me : ‘I am not sure what is the matter with 
him. A wrong medicine would do him more harm than the 
right one would do him good. Meantime he is in no danger. ; 
I will come and see him to-morrow morning.’ Now I liked 
that, because it showed me that he was thinking over the case. !. 
The boy was well in two days. Not that that indicates much. 
All I say is, he is not a common man.” 

“ I don’t like to dismiss Dr. Wade.” 

“ No ; but you must not stand on ceremony, if he is doing 
her no good. You are judge enough of that.” 

I thought it best to say nothing; but I heartily approved 
of all the honest gentleman said ; and I meant to use my per- 
suasion afterwards, if necessary, to the same end ; for I liked 
all he told about the new doctor. I asked his name. 

“ Mr. Armstrong,” answered the school-master. 

“Armstrong?” I repeated. “Is not that the name of 
the new curate ? ” 

“ To be sure. They are brothers. Henry, the doctor, is 
considerably younger than the curate.” 

“ Did the curate seek the appointment because the doctor 
was here before him? ” 

“ I suppose so. They are much attached to each other.” 

“ If he is at all equal as a doctor to what I think his brother 
is as a preacher, Purley bridge is a happy place to possess two 
such healers,” I said. 

“ Well, time will show,” returned Mr. Bloomfield. 

All this time Percy sat yawning and drinking claret. When 
we joined the ladies, we found them engaged in a little gentle 
chat. There was something about Mrs. Bloomfield that was 
very pleasing. The chief ingredient in it was a certain quaint 
repose. She looked as if her heart were at rest ; as if for her 


ADELA CATHCART. 


Si 


everything -was right; as if she had a little room of her own, 
just to her mind, and there her soul sat, looking out, through 
the muslin curtains of modest charity, upon the world that 
went hurrying and seething past her windows. When we 
entered — 

“ I was just beginning to tell Miss Cathcart,” she said, “a 
curious history that came under my notice once. I don’t know 
if I ought though, for it is rather sad. 57 

“ Oh ! I like sad stories,” said Adela. 

“ Well, there isn’t much of romance in it either, hut I will 
cut it short now the gentlemen are come. I knew the lady. 
She had been married some years. And report said her hus- 
band was not over-kind to her. All at once she disappeared, 
and her husband thought the worst of her. Knowing her as 
well as I did, I did not believe a word of it. Yet it was 
strange that she had left her baby, her only child, of a few 
months, as well as her husband. I went to see her mother 
directly I heard of it, and together we went to the police ; and 
such a search as we had ! We traced her to a wretched lodg- 
ing, where she had been for two nights, but they did not know 
what had become of her. In fact, they had turned her out 
because she had no money. 'Some information that we had, 
made us go to a house near Hyde Park. We rang the bell. 
Who should open the door, in a neat cap and print-gown, but 
the poor lady herself! She fainted when she saw her mother. 
And then the whole story came out. Her husband was stingy, 
and only allowed her a very small sum for house-keeping ; and 
perhaps she was not a very good manager, for good manage- 
ment is a gift, and everybody has not got it. So she found 
that she could not clear off the butcher’s bills on the sum 
allowed her ; and she had let the debt gather and gather, till 
the thought of it, I believe, actually drove her out of her mind 
for the time. She dared not tell her husband; but she knew 
it must come out some day, and so at last, quite frantic -with 
the thought of it, she ran away, and left her baby behind 
her.” 

11 And w r hat became of her? ” asked Adela. 

“ Her husband would never hear a word in her favor. He 
laughed at her story in the most scornful way, and said he was 
too old a bird for that. In fact, I believe he never saw her 


32 


ADELA CATHCART. 


again. She went to her mother’s. She will have her child 
now, I suppose ; for I hear that the wretch of a husband, who 
would not let her have him, is dead. I dare saj she is happy 
at last. Poor thing ! Some people would need stout hearts 
and have not got them.” 

Adela sighed. This story, too, seemed to interest her. 

“ What a miserable life ! ” she said. 

“Well, Miss Cathcart,” said the school-master, “no doubt 
it was. But every life that has to be lived, can be lived ; and 
however impossible it may seem to the onlookers, it has its own 
consolations, or at least, interests. And I always fancy the 
most indispensable thing to a life is, that it should be interest- 
ing to those who have it to live. My wife and I have come 
through a good deal, but the time when the life looked hard- 
est to others was not, probably, the least interesting to us. 
It is just like reading a book, — anything will do if you are 
taken up with it.” 

“Very good philosophy! Isn’t it, Adela?” said the 
colonel. 

Adela cast her eyes down, as if with a despairing sense of 
rebuke, and did not reply. 

“I wish you would tell Miss Cathcart,” resumed the 
school-master to his wife, “that little story about the foolish 
lad you met once. And you need not keep back the little of 
your own history that belongs to it. I am sure the colonel 
will excuse you.” 

“ I insist on hearing the whole of it.” said the colonel, 
with a smile. 

And Mrs. Bloomfield began. 

Let me say here once for all, that I cannot keep the tales I 
tell in this volume from partaking of my own peculiarities of 
style, any more than I could keep the sermon free of such ; 
for of course I give them all at second-hand ; and sometimes, 
where a joint was missing, I have had to supply facts as well 
as words. But I have kept as near to the originals as these 
necessities and a certain preparation for the press would per- 
mit me. 

Mrs. Bloomfield, I say, began : — 

“ A good many years ago, now, on a warm summer evening, 
» friend whom I was visiting asked me to take a drive with 


ADELA CATIICART. 


33 


her through one of the London parks. I agreed to go, though 
I did not care much about it. I had not breathed the fresh 
air for some weeks ; yet I felt it a great trouble to go. I had 
been ill, and my husband was ill, and we had nothing to do, 
and we did not know what would become of us. So I was 
anything but cheerful. I knew that all was for the best, as 
my good husband was always telling me ; but my eyes w'ere 
dim and my heart was troubled, and I could not feel sure that 
God cared quite so much for us as he did for the lilies. 

“My friend was very cheerful, and seemed to enjoy every- 
thing ; but a kind of dreariness came over me, and I began 
comparing the loveliness of the summer evening with the cold, 
misty blank that seemed to make up my future. My wretch- 
edness grew greater and greater. The very colors of the flow- 
ers, the blue of the sky, the sleep of the water, seemed to 
push us out of the happy world that God had made. And 
yet the children seemed as happy as if God were busy making 
the things before their eye3, and holding out each thing, as he 
made it, for them to look at. 

“ I should have told you that we had two children then.” . 

“I did not know you had any family,” interposed the 
colonel. 

“Yes, we had two then. One of them is now in India, 
and the other was not long out of heaven. Well, I was glad 
when my friend stopped the carriage, and got out with the 
children, to take them close to the water’s edge, and let them 
feed the swans. I liked better to sit in the carriage alone, 
— an ungrateful creature, in the midst of causes for thankful- 
ness. I did not care for the beautiful things about me ; and I 
was not even pleased that other people should enjoy them. I 
listlessly watched the well-dressed ladies that passed, and 
hearkened contemptuously to the drawling way in which they 
spoke. So bad and proud was I, that I said in my heart, 

‘ Thank God ! I am not like them yet ! ’ Then came nurse- 
maids and children ; and I did envy the servants, because they 
had work to do, and health to do it, and wages for it when it 
was done. The carriage was standing still all this time, you 
know. Then sickly looking men passed, with still more sick- 
ly looking wives, some of them leading a child between them. 
But even their faces told of wages, and the pleasure of an 


34 


ADELA CATIICART. 


evening’s walk in the park. And now I was able to thank 
God that they had the parks to walk in. Then came tottering 
by, an old man, apparently of eighty years, leaning on the 
arm of his grand-daughter, I supposed, — a tidy, gentle-look- 
ing maiden. As they passed, I heard the old man say : ‘ He 
maketh me to lie down in green pastures ; he leadeth mo 1 
beside the still waters.’ And his quiet face looked as if the 
fields were yet green to his cye3, and the still waters as pleas- 
ant as when he was a little child. 

“At last I caught sight of a poor lad, who was walking 
along very slowly, looking at a gay-colored handkerchief j 
which he had spread out before him. Ilis clothes were rather 
ra^ed, but not so ra^ed as old. On his head was what w r e 
now r call a wide-awake. It was very limp and shapeless ; but 
some one that loved him had trimmed it with a bit of blue 
ribbon, the ends of which hung down on his shoulder. This 
gave him an odd appearance even at a distance. When he 
came up and I could see his face, it explained everything. 
There was a constant smile about his mouth, which in itself 
was very sweet; but as it had nothing to do with the rest of 
the countenance, the chief impression it conveyed was of 
idiotcy. He came near the carriage, and stood there, watch- 
ing some men who were repairing the fence which divided the 
road from the footpath. His hair was almost golden, and 
went waving about in the wind. His eye was very large and 
clear, and of a bright blue. But it had no meaning in it. 
He would have been very handsome, had there been mind in 
his face ; but, as it was, the very regularity of his unlighted 
features made the sight a sadder one. IIi3 figure was young ; 
but his face might have belonged to a man of sixty. 

“ He opened his mouth, stuck out his under jaw, and stood 
staring and grinning at the men. At last one of them stopped 
to take breath, and, catching sight of the lad, called out : — 

“ ‘Why, Davy ! is that you ? ’ 

“ ‘ Ya-as, it be,’ replied Davy, nodding his head. 

“ ‘ Why, Davy, it’s ever so long since I clapped eyes oa 
ye ! ’ said the man. ‘ Where ha’ ye been ? ’ 

“ ‘ I ’aint been nowheres, as I knows on.’ 

“ ‘ Well, if ye ’aint been nowheres, what have ye been 
doing ? Flying your kite ? ’ 


ADELA CATHCART. 


35 


“ Davy shook his head sorrowfully, and at the same time 
kept on grinning foolishly. 

“ ‘ I ’aint got no kite ; so I can’t fly it.’ 

“‘But you likes fly in’ kites, don’t ye?’ said his friend, 
kindly. 

“ ‘ Ya-as,’ answered Davy, nodding his head, and rubbing 
his hands, and laughing out. ‘ Kites is such fun ! I wish I’d 
got un.’ 

“ Then he looked thoughtfully, almost moodily, at the man, 
and said : — 

“ 1 Where’s your kite? I likes kites. Kites is friends to 
me.’ 

“ But by this time the man had turned again to his work, 
and was busy driving a post into the ground ; so he paid no 
attention to the lad’s question.” 

“Why, Mrs. Bloomfield,” interrupted the colonel, “I 
should just like you to send out with a reconnoitring party, 
for you seem to see everything and forget nothing.” 

“ You see best and remember best what most interests you, 
colonel ; and, besides that, I got a good rebuke to my ingrati- 
tude from that poor fellow. So you see I had reason to re- 
member him. I hope I don't tire you, Miss Cathcart.” 

“ Quite the contrary,” answered our hostess. 

“ By this time,” resumed Mrs. Bloomfield, “ another man 
had come up. He had a coarse, hard-featured face ; and he 
tried, or pretended to try, to wheel his barrow, which was full 
of gravel, over Davy's toes. The said toes were sticking quite 
bare through great holes in an old pair of woman’s boots. 
Then lie began to tease him rather roughly. But Davy took 
all his banter with just the same complacency and mirth with 
which he had received the kindliness of the other man. 

“ ‘ How's yer sweetheart, Davy ? ’ he said. 

“ ‘ Quite well, thank ye,’ answered Davy. 

“ ‘ What’s her name ? ’ 

“ ‘ Ha ! ha ! ha ! I won’t tell ye that.’ 

“ ‘ Come now, Davy, tell us her name.’ 

“‘Noa.’ 

“ ‘ Don’t be a fool.’ 

“ ‘ I aint a fool. But I won’t tell you her name.’ 

“ ‘ I don’t believe ye’ve got e’er a sweetheart. Come now.’ 


86 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ ‘ I have though.’ 

“ 1 I don’t believe ye.’ 

ul l have though. I was at church with her last Sunday.* 

“ Suddenly the man, looking hard at Davy, changed his 
tone to one of surprise, and exclaimed : — 

“ 1 Why, boy, ye’ve got whiskers! Ye hadn’t them the 
last time I see’d ye. Why, ye are set up now ! When are 
ye going to begin to shave? Where’s your razors ? ’ 

“ 4 ’Aint begun yet,’ replied Davy. 4 Shall shave some day, 
but I ’aint got too much yet.’ 

“As he said this, he fondled away at his whiskers. They 
were few in number, but evidently of great value in his eyes. 
Then he began to stroke his chin, on which there was a little 
down visible, — more like mould in its association with his 
curious face than anything of more healthy significance. 
After a few moments’ pause, his tormentor began again : — 

44 £ Well, I can't think where ye got them whiskers as ye’re 
so fond of. Do ye know where ye got them ? ’ 

44 Davy took cut his pocket-handkerchief, spread it out be- 
fore him, and stopped grinning. 

44 4 Yaas; to be sure I do,’ he said at last. 

44 4 Ye do? ’ growled the man, half humorously, half scorn- 
fully. 

u ‘ Yaas,’ said Davy, nodding his head again and again. 

44 ‘ Did ye buy ’em ? ’ 

4 4 4 Noa,’ answered Davy; and the sweetness of the smile 
which he now smiled was not confined to his mouth, but broke 
like light, the light of intelligence, over his whole face. 

44 ‘Were they gave to ye?’ pursued the man, now really 
curious to hear what he would say. 

44 ‘ Yaas,’ said the poor fellow ; and he clapped his hands ia 
a Rind of suppressed glee. 

4 ‘ ‘ Why, who gave ’em to ye ? 1 

“ Davy looked up in a way I shall never forget, and, point- 
ing up with his finger too, said nothing. 

“ ‘ What do ye mean? ’ said the man. 4 Who gave ye yer 
whiskers ? ’ 

“ Davy pointed up to the sky again ; and then, looking up 
with an earnest expression, which, before you saw it, you 
would not have thought possible to his face, said : — 


ADELA CATIICART. 


37 


11 1 Blessed Father.’ 

“ 1 Who ? ’ shouted the man. 

u 1 Blessed Father,’ Davy repeated, once more pointing 
upwards. 

“ 1 Blessed Father ! ’ returned the man, in a contemptuous 
tone. £ Blessed Father ! — I don’t know who that is. Where 
does he live ? I never heerd on him/ 

il Davy looked at him as if he were sorry for him. Then 
going closer up to him, he said : — 

u ‘ Didn't you though ? He lives up there,’ — again point- 
ing to the sky. ‘ And he is so kind ! He gives me lots o’ 
things.’ 

“ ‘ Well ! ’ said the man, £ I wish he’d give me things. 
But you don’t look so very rich nayther.’ 

“ 1 Oh ! but he gives me lots o’ things ; and he’s up there, 
and he gives everybody lots o’ things as likes to have ’em.’ 

“ 4 Well, what's he gave you? ’ 

“ 1 Why, he’s gave me some bread this mornin’, and a tart 
last night, — he did.’ 

££ And the boy nodded his head, as was his custom, to make 
his assertion still stronger. 

££ £ But you was say in’ just now, you hadn’t got a kite. 
Why don’t he give you one? ’ 

££ £ He'll give me one fast ’nuff,’ said Davy, grinning again, 
and rubbing his hands. 

££ Miss Cathcart, I assure you I could have kissed the boy. 
And I hope I felt some gratitude to God for giving the poor 
lad such trust in him, which, it seemed to me, was better than 
trusting in the three-per-cents, colonel ; for you can draw 
upon him to no end o’ good things. So Davy thought, any- 
how ; and he had got the very thing for the want of which my 
life was cold, and sad, and discontented. Those words, Blessed 
Father , and that look that turned his vacant face, like 
Stephen’s, into the face of an angel, because he was looking up 
to the same glory, were in my ears and eyes for days. And 
they taught me, and comforted me. He was the minister of 
God's best gifts to me. And to how many more, who can 
tell ? For Davy believed that God did care for his own chil- 
dren. 

“ Davy sauntered away, and before my friend came back 


88 


ADELA CATHCART. 


with the children I had lost sight of him ; but at my request 
we moved on slowly till we should find him again. Nor had 
we gone far, before I saw him sitting in the middle of a group 
of little children. He was showing them the pictures on his 
pocket-handkerchief. I had one sixpence in my purse, — it 
was the last I had, Mr. Smith.” 

Here, from some impulse or other, Mrs. Bloomfield ad- 
dressed me. 

“ But I wasn’t so poor but I could borrow, and it was a 
small price to give for what I had got; and so, as I was not 
able to leave the carriage, I asked my friend to take it to him, 
and tell him that Blessed Father had sent him that to buy a 
kite. The expression of childish glee upon his face, and the 
devout God bless you , lady ! upon his tongue, were strangely 
but not incongruously mingled. 

“ Well, it was my last sixpence then ; but here I and my hus- 
band are, owing no man anything, and spending a happy 
Christmas day, with many thanks to Colonel and Miss Cath- 
cart.” 

‘•No, my good madam,” said the colonel ; “ it is we who owe 
you the happiest part of our Christmas day. Is it not. Adela ? ” 

“ Yes, papa, it is indeed,” answered Adela. 

Then, with some hesitation, she added : — 

“ But do you think it was quite fair? It was you , Mrs. 
Bloomfield, who gave the boy the sixpence.” 

“ I only said God sent it,” said Mrs. Bloomfield. 

“ Besides,” I interposed, “ the boy never doubted it; and I 
think, after all, with due submission to my niece, he was the 
best judge.” < 

“ I should be only too happy to grant it,” she answered with 
a sigh. “ Things might be all right if one could believe that, 
— thoroughly, I mean.” 

“ At least you will allow,” I said, “that this boy was not 
by any means so miserable as he looked.” 

“Certainly,” she answered, with hearty emphasis. “I 
think he was much to be envied.” 

Here I discovered that Percy was asleep on a sofa. 

Other talk followed, and the colonel was looking very 
thoughtful. Tea was brought in, and, soon after, our visitors 
rose U. take their leave. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


39 


“ You are not going already ? ” said the colonel. 

“ If you w.ill excuse us/’ answered the school-master. “ We 
*re early birds . r 

“ Well, will you dine with us this day week? ” 

“With much pleasure,” answered both in a breath. 

It was clear both that the colonel liked their simple, honest 
company, and that he saw they might do his daughter good ; 
for her face looked very earnest and sweet, and the clearness 
that precedes rain was evident in the atmosphere of her eyes. 

After their departure we soon separated ; and I retired to 
my room full of a new idea, which I thought, if well carried 
out, might be of still further benefit to the invalid. 

But before I went to bed, I had made a rough translation 
of the following hymn of Luther’s, which I have since com- 
pleted, — so far at least as the following is complete. I often 
find that it helps to keep good thoughts before the mind, to 
turn them into another shape of words : — 

From heaven above I come to you, 

To bring a story good and new : 

Of goodly news so much I bring, — 

I cannot help it, I must sing. 

To you a child is come this morn, 

A child of holy maiden born, 

A little babe, so sweet and mild, — 

It is a joy to see the child. 

*Tis little Jesus, whom we need 
Us out of sadness all to lead : 

He will himself our Saviour be, 

And from all sinning set us free. 

Here come the shepherds, whom we know; 

Let all of us right gladsome go, 

To see what God to us hath given, — 

A gift that makes a stable heaven. 

Take heed, ray heart ! Be lowly. So 
Thou seest him lie in manger low : 

That is the baby sweet and mild, 

That is the little Jesus-child. 

Ah, Lord ! the maker of us all, 

How hast thou grown so poor and small. 

Til at there thou liest on withered grass, — 

The supper of the ox and ass ? 


40 


ADELA CATHCART. 


Were the world wider many- fold, 

And decked with gems and cloth of gold* 
’Twere far too mean and narrow all, 

To make for thee a cradle small. 

Rough hay, and linen not too tine, 

The silk and velvet that are thine ; 

Yet as they were thy kingdom great, 
Thou liest in them in royal state. 

And this, all this, hath pleased thee, 

That thou mightst bring this truth to me; 
That all earth’s good, in one combined, 

Is nothing to thy mighty mind. 

Ah. little Jesus, lay thy head 
Eovrn in a soft, white, little bed, 

That waits thee in this heart of mine, 
And then this heart is always thine. 

Such gladness in my heart would make 
Me dance and sing for thy sweet sake. 
Glory to God in highest heaven, 

For lie his Son to us hath given ! 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE NEW DOCTOR. 

Next forenoon, wishing to have a little private talk with my 
friend, I went to his room, and found him busy writing to Dr. 
Wade. He consulted me on the contents of the letter, and I 
was heartily pleased with the kind way in which he communi- 
cated to the old gentleman the resolution he had come to, of 
trying whether another medical man might not be more fortu- 
nate in his attempt to treat the illness ot his daughter. 

“ 1 fear Dr. Wade will be offended, say what I like,” said he. 

“ It is quite possible to be too much afraid of giving offence,” 
I said ; “ but nothing can be more gentle and friendly than the 
way in which you have communicated the necessity.” 

“Well, it is a great comfort you think so. Will you go 
with me to call on Mr. Armstrong ? ” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


41 


‘‘With much pleasure,” I answered; and we set out at 
once. 

Shown into the doctor's dining-room, I took a glance at the 
books lying about. I always take advantage of such an 
opportunity of gaining immediate insight into character. Let 
me see a man’s book-shelves, especially if they are not exten- 
sive, and I fancy I know at once, in some measure, what sort 
of a man the owner is. One small bookcase in a recess of the 
rown seemed to contain all the non-professional library of Mr. 
Armstrong. I am not going to say here what books they were, 
or what books I like to see ; but I was greatly encouraged by 
the consultation of the auguries afforded by the backs of these. 
I was still busy with them, when the door opened, and the 
doctor entered. He was the same man whom I had seen in 
church looking at Adela. He advanced in a frank, manly way 
to the colonel, and welcomed him by name, though I believe 
no introduction had ever passed between them. Then tire colo- 
nel introduced me, and we were soon chatting very comfortably. 
In his manner, I was glad to find that there was nothing 
of the professional. I hate the professional. I was delighted 
to observe, too, that what showed at a distance as a broad, 
honest country face, revealed, on a nearer view, lines of 
remarkable strength and purity. 

“ My daughter is very far from well,” said the colonel, in 
answer to a general inquiry. 

“ So I have been sorry to understand,” the doctor rejoined. 
“ Indeed, it is only too clear from her countenance.” 

“ I want you to come and see if you can do her any good.” 

“Is not Dr. Wade attending her?” 

“ I have already informed him that I meant to request 
your advice.” 

“ I shall be most happy to be of any service ; but — might 
I suggest the most likely means of enabling me to judge 
whether I can be useful or not? ” 

“ Most certainly.” 

“ Then will you give me the opportunity of seeing her in a 
non-professional way first ? I presume, from the fact that she 
is able to go to church, that she can be seen at home without 
the formality of an express visit? ” 

“ Certainly,” replied the colonel, heartily. “Do me the 


42 


ADELA CATHCART. 


favor to dine with us this evening, and, as far as that can go, 
you will see her, — to considerable disadvantage, I fear,” he 
concluded, smiling sadly. 

; ‘ Thank you ; thank you. If in my power I shall not 
fail you. But you must leave a margin for professional 
contingencies.” 

11 Of course. That is understood.” 

I had been watching Mr. Armstrong during this brief con- 
versation, and the favorable impressions I had already received 
of him were deepened. Ilis fine manly vigor, and the simple 
honesty of his countenance, were such as became a healer of 
men. It seemed altogether more likely that health might 
flow from such a source, than from the pudgey , flabby figure 
of snuff- taking Dr. Wade, whose face had no expression except 
a professional one. Mr. Armstrong’s eyes looked you full in 
the face, as if he was determined to understand you if he 
could ; and there seemed to me, with my foolish way of see- 
ing signs everywhere, something of tenderness about the droop 
of those long eyelashes, so that his interpretation was not 
likely to fail from lack of sympathy. Then there was the 
firm-set mouth of his brother the curate, and a forehead as 
broad as his, if not so high or so full of modelling. When 
we had taken our leave, I said to the colonel : — 

“ If that man’s opportunity has been equal to his qualifica- 
tion, I think we may have great hopes of his success in 
encountering this unknown disease of poor Adela.” 

“ God grant it! ” was all my friend's reply. 

When he informed Adela that he expected Mr. Henry 
Armstrong to dinner, she looked at him with a surprised 
expression, as much as to say, “Surely you do not mean 
to give me into his hands ! ” but she only said : — 

“ Very well, papa.” 

So Mr. Armstrong came, and made himself very agreeable 
at dinner, talking upon all sort3 of subjects, and never letting 
drop a single word to remind Adela that she was in the pres- 
ence of a medical man. Nor did he seem to take any notice 
of her more than w T as required by ordinary politeness ; but, 
behaving without speciality of any sort, he drew his judgments 
from her general manner, and such glances as fell naturally 
to his share, of those that must pass between all the persons 


ADELA CATHCART. 


43 


biaking up a small dinner company. This enabled him to see 
her as she really was, for she remained quite at such ease as 
her indisposition would permit. He drank no wine at dinner, 
and only one glass after ; and then asked the host if he might 
go to the drawing-room. 

“ And will you oblige me by coming with me, Mr. Smith? 
I can see that you are at home here.” 

Of course the colonel consented, and I was at his service. 
Adela rose from her couch when we entered the room. Mr. 
Armstrong went up to her gently, and said : — 

“ Are you able to sing something, Miss Cathcart? I have 
heard of your singing.” 

“I fear not,” she answered ; “I have not sung for 
months.” 

“That is a pity. You must lose something by letting 
yourself get out of practice. May I play something to you, 
then? ” 

She gave him a quick glance that indicated some surprise, 
and said : — 

“ If you please. It will give me pleasure.” 

“ May I look at your music first? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

lie turned over all her loose music from beginning to end. 
Then without a word seated himself at the grand piano. 

Whether he extemporized or played from memory, I, as 
ignorant of music as of all other accomplishments, could not 
tell, but even to stupid me, what he did play spoke. I assure 
my readers that I hardly know a term in the whole musical 
vocabulary ; and yet I am tempted to try to describe what this 
music was like. 

In the beginning, I heard nothing but a slow sameness, of 
which I was soon weary. There was nothing like an air of 
any kind in it. It seemed as if only his fingers were playing, 
and his mind had nothing to do with it. It oppressed me with 
a sense of the commonplace, which, of all things, I hate. At 
length, into the midst of it, came a few notes, like the first 
chirp of a sleepy bird trying to sing ; only the attempt was 
half a wail, which died away, and came again. Over and over 
again came these few sad notes, increasing in number, fainting, 
despairing, and reviving again ; till at last, with a fluttering 


44 


ADELA CATHCART. 


of agonized wings, as of a soul struggling up out of the purga- 
torial smoke, the music-bird sprang aloft, and broke into a 
wild but unsure jubilation. Then, as if in the exuberance of 
its rejoicing it had broken some law of the kingdom of har- 
mony, it sank, plumb-down, into the purifying fires again ; 
where the old wailing and the old struggle began, but with 
increased vehemence and aspiration. By degrees, the sur- 
rounding confusion and distress melted away into forms of 
harmony, which sustained the mounting cry of longing and 
prayer. Then all the cry vanished in a jubilant praise. 
Stronger and broader grew the fundamental harmony, and 
bore aloft the thanksgiving; which, at length, exhausted by 
its own utterance, sank peacefully, like a summer sunset, into 
a gray twilight of calm, with the songs of the summer birds 
dropping asleep one by one ; till, at last, only one was left to 
sing the sweetest prayer for all, before he, too, tucked his head 
under his wing, and yielded to the restoring silence. 

Then followed a pause. I glanced at Adela. She was 
quietly weeping. 

But he did not leave the instrument yet. A few notca, as 
of the first distress, awoke ; and then a fine manly voice arose, 
singing the following song, accompanied by something like the 
same music he had already played. It was the same feelings 
put into words; or, at least, something like the same feelings, 
far I am a poor interpreter of music : — 

Rejoice, said the sun, I will make thee gay 

With glory, and gladness, and holiday ; 

I am dumb, O man, and I need thy voice ; 

But man would not rejoice. 

Rejoice in thyself, said he, O sun; 

For thou thy daily course dost run. 

In thy lofty place, rejoice if thou can : 

For me, I am only a man. 

Rejoice, said the wind, I am free and strong; 

I will wake in thy heart an ancient song. 

In the bowing woods — hark ! hear my voice ! 

But man would not rejoice. 

Rejoice, O wind, in thy strength, said he, 

For thou fulfillest thy destiny. 

Shake the trees, and the faint flowers fan : 

For me, I am only a man. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


45 


I fira here, said the night, with moon and star; 

The sun and the wind are gone afar ; 

I am here with rest and dreams of choice ; 

But man would not rejoice. 

For he said, What is rest to me, I pray, 

Who have done no labor all the day ? 

lie only should dream who has truth behind. 

Alas for me and my kind 1 

Then a voice that came not from moon nor star, 

From the sun, nor the roving wind afar, 

Said, Man, I am with thee, — rejoice, rejoice! 

And man said, I will rejoice ! 

“ A wonderful physician this ! ” thought I to myself. “ He 
must be a follower of some of the old mystics of the profession, 
counting harmony and health all one.” 

He sat still, for a few moments, before the instrument, per- 
haps to compose his countenance, and then rose and turned to 
the company. 

The colonel and Percy had entered by this time. The 
traces of tears were evident on Adela’s face, and Percy was 
eying first her and then Armstrong, with some signs of dis- 
quietude. Even during dinner it had been clear to me that 
Percy did not like the doctor, and now he was as evidently 
jealous of him. 

A little general conversation ensued, and the doctor took 
his leave. The colonel followed him to the door. I would 
gladly have done so too, but I remained in the drawing-room. 
All that passed between them was : — 

“ Will you oblige me by calling on Sunday morning, half 
an hour before church-time, colonel?” 

“ With pleasure.” 

“Will you come with me, Smith?” asked my friend after 
informing me of the arrangement. 

“ Don’t you think I might be in the way ? ” 

“ Not at all. I am getting old and stupid. I should like 
you to come and take care of me. He won’t do Adela any 
good, I fear.” 

“ Why do you think so ? ” 

“lie has a depressing effect on her already. She is sure 


46 


ADELA CATIICART. 


not to like him. She was crying when I came into the room 
after dinner.” 

“ Tears are not grief,” I answered; “nor only the signs: 
of grief, when they do indicate its presence. They are a relief 
to it as well. But I cannot help thinking there was some 
pleasure mingled with those tears, for he had been playing very 
delightfully. He must be a very gifted man.” 

“ I don’t know anything about that. You know I have no 
ear for music. That won’t cure my child anyhow.” 

“ I don’t know,” I answered. “ It may help.” 

“ Do you mean to say he thinks to cure her by playing the 
piano to her ? If he thinks to come here and do that, he is 
mistaken.” 

“You forget, Cathcart, that I have had no more conversa- 
tion with him than yourself. But surely you have seen no 
reason to quarrel with him already.” 

“No, no, my dear fellow. I do believe I am getting a 
crusty old curmudgeon. I can’t bear to see Adela like this.” 

“ Well, I confess, I have hopes from the new doctor; but 
we will see what he says on Sunday.” 

“ Why should we not have called to-morrow? ” 

“ I can’t answer that. I presume he wants time to think 
about the case.” 

“ And meantime he may break his neck over some gate that 
he can’t or won’t open.” 

“Well, I should be sorry.” 

“ But what’s to become of us then? ” 

“ Ah ! you allow that? Then you do expect something of 
him ? ” 

“To be sure I do, only I am afraid of making a fool of 
myself, and that sets me grumbling at him, I suppose.” 

Next day was Saturday; and Mrs. Cathcart, Percy’s 
mother, was expected in the evening. I had a long walk in 
the morning, and after that remained in my own room till 
dinner time. I confess I was prejudiced against her ; and 
just because I was prejudiced I resolved to do all I could to 
like her, especially as it was Christmas-tide. Not that one 
time i3 not as good as another for loving your neighbor, but if 
ever one is reminded of the duty, it is then. I schooled myself 
all I could, and went into the drawing-room like a boy trying 


ADELA CATHCART. 


47 


to be good ; as a means to which end I put on as pleasant a 
i face as would come. But my good resolutions were sorely 
tried. 

These points indicate the obliteration of the personal de- 
scription which I had given of her. Though true, it was ill- 
natured. And, besides, so indefinite is all description of this 
kind, that it is quite possible it might be exactly like some 
woman to whom I am utterly unworthy to hold a candle. So 
I won’t tell what her features were like. I will only say, that 
I am certain her late husband must have considered her a very 
fine woman ; and that I had an indescribable sensation in the 
1 calves of my leg3 when I came near her. But then, although 
I believe I am considered a good-natured man, I confess to 
j prejudices (which I commonly refuse to act upon) and to pro- 
i found dislikes, especially to certain sorts of women, which I 
can no more help feeling than I can help feeling the misery 
i that permeates the joints of my jaws when I chance to bite into 
a sour apple. So my opinions about such women go for little 
or nothing. 

When I entered the drawing-room, I saw at once that she 
had established herself a3 protectress of Adela, and possibly as 
mistress of the house. She leaned back in her chair at a con- 
siderable angle, but without bending her spine, and her hands 
! lay folded in her lap. She made me a bow with her neck, 
without in the least altering the angle of her position, while I 
i made her one of ray most profound obeisances. A few com- 
[| mon places passed between us, and then her brother-in-law 
leading her down to dinner, the evening passed by with polite- 
ness on both sides. Adela did not appear to heed her presence 
one way or the other. But then of late she had been very 
j| inexpressive. 

Percy seemed to keep out of his mother’s way as much as 
; possible. IIow he amused himself, I cannot imagine. 

Next morning we went to cull on the doctor, on our way to 
church. 

“ Well, Mr. Armstrong, what do you think of my daughter ? ” 
asked the colonel. 

“ I do not think she is in a very bad way. Has she had any 
disappointment that you know of? ” 


48 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ None whatever.” 

“ Ah ! I have seen such a case before. There are a good. | 
many of them amongst girls at her age. It is as if, without 
any disease, life were gradually withdrawing itself, — ebbing back 
as it were to its source. Whether this has a physical or a 
psychological cause, it is impossible to tell. In her case, I think 
the latter, if indeed it have not a deeper cause ; that is, if I 
am right in ray hypothesis. A few days will show me this; 
and, if I am wrong, I will then make a closer examination of 
her case. At present it is desirable that I should not annoy 
her in any such way. Now for the practical: my conviction 
is that the best thing that can be done for her is, to interest her 
in something, if possible, — no matter what it is. Does she 
take pleasure in anything? ” 

“She used to be very fond of music. But of late I have 
not heard her touch the piano.” 

“ May I be allowed to speak? ” I asked. 

“ Most certainly,” said both at once. 

“ I have had a little talk with Miss Cathcart, and I am en- 
tirely of Mr. Armstrong’s opinion,” I said. “ And with hia 
permission, — lam pretty sure of my old friend’s concurrence, — 

I will tell you a plan I have been thinking of. You remember, 
colonel, how she was more interested in the anecdotes our 
friends the Bloomfields told the other evening, than she has 
been in anything else since I came. It seems to me that the 
interest she cannot find for herself we might be able to provide 
for her, by telling her stories ; the course of w’hich every one 
should be at liberty to interrupt, for the introduction of any 
remark whatever. If we once got her interested in anything, 
it seems to me, as Mr. Armstrong has already hinted, that the 
tide of life would begin to flow again. She would eat better, 
and sleep better, and speculate less, and think less about 
herself, — not of herself, — I don’t mean that, colonel, for no 
one could well think less of herself than she does. And if we 
could amuse her in that way for a week or two, I think it 
would give a fair chance to any physical remedies Mr. Arm- 
strong might think proper to try, for they act most rapidly on 
a system in movement. It would be beginning from the inside, 
would it not ? ” 

“A capital plan,” said the doctor, who had been listening 


ADELA CATHCART. 


49 


with marked approbation; “and I know one who lam sure 
would help us. For my part, I never told a story in my life, but 
I am willing to try, — after a while, that is. My brother, 
however, would, I know, be delighted to lend his aid to such 
a scheme, if Colonel Cathcart would be so good as to include 
him in the conspiracy. It is his duty as well as mine, for she 
is one of his flock. And he can tell a tale, real or fictitious, 
better than any one I know.” 

“There can be no harm in trying it, gentlemen, — with 
kindest thanks to you for your interest in my poor child,” 
said the colonel. “ I confess I have not much hope from such 
a plan, but — ” 

“ You must not let her know that the thing is got up for 
her,” interrupted the doctor. 

“ Certainly not. You must all come and dine with us, any 
day you like. I will call on your brother to-morrow.” 

“ This Christmas-tide gives good opportunity for such a 
scheme,” I said. •“ It will fall in well with all the festivities; 
and I am quite willing to open the entertainment with a funny 
kind of fairy-tale, which has been growing in my brain for 
some time.” 

“ Capital ! ” said Mr. Armstrong. “We must have all 
sorts.” 

“ Then shall it be Monday at six, — that is, to-morrow? ” 
asked the colonel. “ Your brother won’t mind a short in- 
vitation ? ” 

“ Certainly not. Ask him to-day. But I would suggest 
five, if I might, to give us more time afterwards.” 

“Very well. Let it be five. And now we will go to 
church.” 

The ends of the old oak pews next the chancel were curiously 
carved. One had a ladder and a hammer and nails on it. 
Another a number of round flat things, and when you counted 
them you found that there were thirty. Another had a curious 
thing, — I could not tell what, till one day I met an old woman 
carrying just such a bag. On another was a sponge on the 
point of a spear. There were more of such carvings, but 
these I could see from where I sat. And all the sermon was 
a persuading of the people that God really loved them, without 
any if or but. 


50 


ADELA CATIICART. 


Adela was very attentive to the clergyman, but I could see 
her glance wander now and then from his face to that of his 
brother, who was in the same place he had occupied on Christ- 
mas day. The expression of her aunt’s face was judicial. 

When we came out of church, the doctor shook hands with 
me and said : — 

“ Can I have a word with you, Mr. Smith? ” 

“Most gladly,” I answered. “Your time is precious; I 
will walk your way.” 

“ Thank you. I like your plan heartily. But, to tell the 
truth, I fancy it is more a case for my brother than for me. 
But that may come about all in good time, especially as she 
will now have an opportunity of knowing him. He is the 
best fellow in the world. And his wife is as good as he 
is. But — I feel I may say to you what I could not well say 
to the colonel — I suspect the cause of her illness is rather a 
spiritual one. She has evidently a strong mental constitution, 
pnd this strong frame, so to speak, has been fed upon slops, 
and an atrophy is the consequence. My hope in your plan is, 
partly, that it may furnish a better mental table for her for the 
time, and set her foraging in new directions for the future.” 

“ But how could you tell that from the very little conver- 
sation you had with her? ” 

“ It was not the conversation only, — I watched everything 
about her; and interpreted it by what I know about women. 
I believe that many of them go into a consumption just from 
discontent, — the righteous discontent of a soul which is meant 
to sit at the Father’s table, and so cannot content itself with 
the husks which the swine eat. The theological nourishment 
which is offered them is generally no better than husks. They 
cannot live upon it, and so die and go home to their Father. 
And without good spiritual food to keep the spiritual senses 
healthy and true, they cannot see the things about them as 
they really are. They cannot find interest in them, because 
they cannot find their own place amongst them. There was 
one thing, though, that confirmed me in this idea about Miss 
Cathcart. I looked over her music on purpose, and I did not 
find one song that rose above the level of the drawing-room, 
or one piece of mus'c that had any deep feeling or any thought 
in it Of course I judged by the composers.” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


51 


“You astonish me by the truth and rapidity of your judg- 
ments. But how did you, who like myself are a bachelor, 
come to know so much about the minds of women? ” 

“ 1 believe in part by reading Milton, and learning from 
him a certain high notion about myself and my own duty. 
None but a pure man can understand women, — I mean the 
true womanhood that is in them. But more than to Milton 
am I indebted to that brother of mine you heard preach to-day. 
If ever God made a good man, he is one. He will tell you 
himself that he knows what evil is. He drank of the cup, 
found it full of thirst and bitterness ; cast it from him, and, 
turning to the fountain of life, kneeled and drank, and rose 
up a gracious giant. I say the last, — not he. But this 
brother kept me out of the mire in which he soiled his own 
garments, though, thank God! they are clean enough now. 
Forgive my enthusiasm, Mr. Smith, about my brother. He 
is worthy of it.” 

I felt the wind cold to my weak eyes, and did not answer 
for some time, lest he should draw unfair conclusions. 

“You should get him to tell you his story. It is well 
worth hearing ; and, as I see we shall be friends all, I would 
rather you heard it from his own mouth.” 

“ I sincerely hope I may call that man my friend, some day.” 

“ You may do so already. He was greatly taken with you 
on the journey down.” 

“ A mutual attraction then, I am happy to think. Good- 
by, I am glad you like my plan.” 

“ I think it excellent. Anything hearty will do her good. 
Isn’t there any young man to fall in love with her? ” 

“ I don’t know of any at present.” 

“ Only the best thing will make her well ; but all true 
things tend to healing.” 

“ But how is it that you have such notions, — so different 
from those of the mass of your professional brethren? ” 

“ Oh ! ” said he, laughing, “ if you really want an answer, 
be it known to all men that I am a student of Van Helmont.” 

He turned away, laughing; and I, knowing nothing of Van 
Helmont, could not tell whether he was in jest or in earnest. 

At dinner some remark was made about the sermon, I 
think by our host. 


52 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ You do t call that the gospel ! ” said Mrs. Cathcart, with 
a smile. 

“ Why, what do you call it, Jane? ” 

“ I don’t know that I am bound to put a name upon it. I 
should, however, call it pantheism. 5 ’ 

“ Might I ask you, madam, what you understand hy pan- 
theism ? ” 

“ Oh ! neology, and all that sort of thing.” 

“ And neology is — ? ” 

“Really, Mr. Smith, a dinner- table is not the most suit- 
able place in the world for theological discussion.” 

“I quite agree with you, madam,” I responded, astonished 
at my own boldness. I was not quite so much afraid of her 
after this, although I had an instinctive sense that she did not 
at all like me. Rut Percy was delighted to see his mother dis- 
comfited, and laughed into his plate. She regarded him with 
lurid eyes for a moment, and then took refuge in her plate in 
turn. The colonel was too polite to make any remark at the 
time, but when he and I were alone, he said : — 

“ Smith, I didn' t expect it of you. Bravo, my boy ! ” 

And I, John Smith, felt myself a hero. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE LIGHT PRINCESS. 

Five o’clock, anxiously expected by me, came, and with it 
the announcement of dinner. I think those of us who were in 
the secret would have hurried over it, but, with Beeves hang- 
ing upon our wheels, we could not. However, at length we 
were all in the drawing-room, the ladies of the house evidently 
surprised that we had come upstairs so soon. Besides the 
curate, with his wife and brother, our party comprised our old 
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield, whose previous engagement 
had been advanced by a few days. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


53 


When we were all seated, I began, as if it were quite a pri- 
vate suggestion of my own : — 

“Adela, if you and our friends have no objection, I will 
read you a story I have just scribbled off.” 

“ I shall be delighted, uncle.” 

This was a stronger expression of content than I had yet 
heard her use, and I felt flattered accordingly. 

“This is Christmas-time, you know, and that is just the 
time for story-telling,” I added. 

“I trust it is a story suitable to the season,” said Mrs. 
Cathcart, smiling. 

“ Yes, very,” I said ; “ for it is a child’s story, — a fairy- 
tale, namely ; though 1 confess I think it fitter for grown than 
for young children. I hope it is funny, though. I think it 
is.” 


“ So you approve of fairy-tales for children, Mr. Smith?” 

“ Not for children alone, madam; for everybody that can 
relish them.” 

“ But not at a sacred time like this? ” 

And again she smiled an insinuating smile. 

“If I thought God did not approve of fairy-tales, I would 
never read, not to say write, one, Sunday or Saturday. 
Would you, madam? ” 

“ I never do.” 

“I feared not. But I must begin, notwithstanding.” 

The story, as I now give it, is not exactly as I read it then, 
because, of course, I was more anxious that it should be cor- 
rect when I prepared it for the press, than when I merely read 
it before a few friends. 

“ Once upon a time,” I began; but I was unexpectedly in- 
terrupted by the clergyman, who said, addressing our host: — 

“ Will you allow me, Colonel Cathcart, to be Master of 
the Ceremonies for the evening? ” 

“ Certainly, Mr. Armstrong.” 

“ Then I will alter the arrangement of the party. Here, 
Henry, — don’t get up, Miss Cathcart, — we’ll just lift Miss 
Cathcart’s couch to this corner by the fire. Lie still, please. 
Now, Mr. Smith, you sit here in the middle. Now, Mrs. 
Cathcart, here is an easy-chair for you. With my command- 
ing officer I will not interfere. But having such a jolly fire 


54 


ADELA CATHCART. 


it was a pity not to get the good of it. Mr. Bloomfield, her® 
is room for you and Mrs. Bloomfield.” 

“ Excellently arranged,” said our host. “ I will sit by 
you, Mr. Armstrong. Percy, won’t you come and join the 
circle ? ” 

“ No, thank you, uncle,” answered Percy, from a couch; 
“I am more comfortable here.” 

“ Now, Lizzie,” said the curate to his wife, “you sit on 
this stool by me. Too near the fire? No? Very well. 
Harry, put the bottle of water near Mr. Smith. A fellow- 
feeling for another fellow, — you see, Mr. Smith. Now 
we’re all right, I think ; that is, if Mrs. Cathcart is com- 
fortable.” 

“ Thanks. Quite.” 

“Then we may begin. Now, Mr. Smith. One word more: 
anybody may speak that likes. Now, then.” 

So I did begin : — 

“Title: The Light Princess. 

“ Second Title : A Fairy-Tale Without Fairies. 

“Author: John Smith, Gentleman. 

“Motto: — ‘ Tour Servant, Goody Gravity .* 

“From — Sir Charles Grandison.” 

“ I must be very stupid, I fear, Mr. Smith : but, to tell the 
truth, /can’t make head or tail of it,” said Mrs. Cathcart. 

“Give me leave, madam,” said I; “that is my office. 
Allow me, and I hope to make both head and tail of it for 
you. But let me give you first a more general, and indeed a 
more applicable, motto for my story. It is this, — from no 
worse authority than John Milton : — 

“ ‘ Great bards besides 
In sage and solemn times have sung 
Of turnoys and of trophies hung; 

Of forests and enchantments drear. 

Where more is meant than meets the ear.’ 


ADELA CATIICART. 


55 


* ‘ Milton here refers to Spenser in particular, most likely. 
But what distinguishes the true bard in such work is, that 
more is meant than meets the ear ; and, although I am no 
bard, I should scorn to w T rite anything that only spoke to the 
car, which signifies the surface understanding. ” 

General silence followed, and I went on. 

“THE LIGHT PRINCESS. 

“Chapter I. — What! no children? 

“ Once upon a time, so long ago that I have quite forgotten 
the date, their lived a king and queen who had no children. 

“And the king said to himself: ‘All the queens of my 
acquaintance have children, some three, some seven, and some 
as many as twelve ; and my queen has not one. I feel ill- 
used.’ So he made up his mind to be cross with his wife 
about it. But she bore it all like a good, patient queen, as she 
was. Then the king grew very cross indeed. But the queen 
pretended to take it all as a joke, and a very good one too. 

“ ‘ Why don’t you have any daughters, at least? ’ said he, 
‘ 1 don’t say sons ; that might be too much to expect.’ 

“ ‘ I am sure, dear king, I am very sorry,’ said the queen. 

“‘So you ought to be,’ retorted the king; ‘you arc not 
going to make a virtue of that, surely.’ 

“ But he w r as not an ill-tempered king; and, in any matter 
of less moment, he would have let the queen have her own 
way, with all his heart. This, however, was an affair of state. 

“ The queen smiled. 

“ ‘ You must have patience with a lady, you know, dear 
king,’ said she. 

“ She was, indeed, a very nice queen, and heartily sorry 
that she could not oblige the king immediately. 

“The king tried to have patience, but he succeeded very 
badly. It was more than he deserved, therefore, when, at 
last, the queen gave him a daughter, — as lovely a little prin- 
cess as ever cried. 


56 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ Chapter II. — Won’t I, just? 

u The day drew near when the infant must be christened 
The kino: wrote all the invitations with his own hand. Of 

o 

course somebody was forgotten. 

“Now, it does not generally matter if somebody is for- 
gotten; but you must mind who. Unfortunately, the king 
forgot without intending it; and the chance fell upon the 
Princess Makemnoit, which was awkward; for the princess 
was the king’s own sister, and he ought not to have forgotten 
her. But she had made herself so disagreeable to the old 
king, their father, that he had forgotten her in making his 
will ; and so it was no wonder that her brother forgot her in 
writing his invitations. But poor relations don’t do anything 
to keep you in mind of them. Why don’t they ? The king 
could not see into the garret she lived in, could he? She was 
a sour, spiteful creature. The wrinkles of contempt crossed 
the wrinkles of peevishness, and made her face as full of 
wrinkles as a pat of butter. If ever a king could be justified 
in forgetting anybody, this king was justified in forgetting his 
sister, even at a christening. And then she was so disgrace- 
fully poor ! She looked very odd, too. Her forehead was as 
large as all the rest of her face, and projected over it like a 
precipice. When she was angry, her little eyes flashed blue. 
When she hated anybody, they shone yellow and green. 
What they looked like when she loved anybody, I do not 
know ; for I never heard of her loving anybody but herself, 
and I do not think she could have managed that, if she had 
not somehow got used to herself. But what made it highly 
imprudent in the king to forget her, was — that she was 
awfully clever. In fact, she was a witch ; and when she 
bewitched anybody, he very soon had enough of it ; for she 
beat all the wicked fairies in wickedness, and all the clever 
ones in cleverness. She despised all the modes we read of in 
history, in which offended fairies and witches have taken their 
revenges ; and therefore, after waiting and waiting in vain for 
an. invitation, she made up her mind at last to go without one 
and make the whole family miserable, like a princess and a 
philosopher 


ADELA CATIICART. 


57 


“ She put on her best gown, went to the palace, was kindly 
received by the happy monarch, who forgot that he had for- 
gotten her, and took her place in the procession to the royal 
chapel. When they were all gathered about the font, she 
contrived to get next to it, and throw something into the 
water. She maintained then a very respectful demeanor till 
the water was applied to the child’s face. But at that moment 
she turned round in her place three times, and muttered the 
following words, loud enough for those beside her to hear : — 

“ 1 Light of spirit, by my charms, 

Light of body, every part, 

Never weary human arms — 

Only crush thy parents’ heart ! * 

“ They all thought she had lost her wits, and was repeating 
some foolish nursery rhyme ; but a shudder went through the 
whole of them. The baby, on the contrary, began to laugh 
and crow ; while the nurse gave a start and a smothered cry, 
for she thought she was struck with paralysis : she could not 
feel the baby in her arms. But she clasped it tight, and said 
nothing. 

“ The mischief was done.” 

Here I came to a pause, for I found tlie reading somewhat 
nervous work, and had to make application to the water-bottle. 

“ Bravo ! Mr. Smith,” cried the clergyman. “A good 
beginning, I am sure ; for I cannot see what you are driving 
at.” 

“ I think I do,” said Henry. “ Don’t you, Lizzie? ” 

“ No, I don’t,” answered Mrs. Armstrong. 

“ One thing,” said Mrs. Cathcart, with a smile, not a very 
sweet one, but still a smile, — “one thing I must object to. 
That is, introducing church ceremonies into a fairy-tale.” 

“ Why, Mrs. Cathcart,” answered the clergyman, taking 
up the cudgels for me, “ do you suppose the church to be such 
a cross-grained old lady that she will not allow her children to 
take a few gentle liberties with their mother? She’s able to 
stand that surely. They won’t love her the less for that.” 

“Besides,” I ventured to say, “if both church and fairy- 
tale belong to humanity, they may occasionally cross circles 


58 


ADELA CATHCART. 


without injury to either. They must have something in com* 
mon. There is the ‘Fairy Queen,’ and the ‘Pilgrim’s 
Progress,’ you know, Mrs. Cathcart. I can fancy the pope 
even telling his nephews a fairy-tale.” 

“ Ah, the pope. I dare say.” 

“ And not the arch-bishop ? ” 

“ I don’t think your reasoning quite correct, Mr. Smith,” said 
the clergyman ; “ and I think, moreover, there is a real objection 
to that scene. It is, that no such charm could have had any 
effect where holy water was employed as the medium. In fact, 
I doubt if the wickedness could have been wrought in a chapel 
at all.” 

“ I submit,” I said. “ You are right. I hold up the four 
paws of my mind, and crave indulgence.” 

“ In the name of the church, having vindicated her power 
over evil incantations, I permit you to proceed,” said Mr. 
Armstrong, his black eyes twinkling with fun. 

Mrs. Cathcart smiled, and shook her head. 


“ Chapter III. — Siie can’t be ours. 

“Her atrocious aunt had deprived the child of all her 
gravity. If you ask me how this was effected, I answer : In 
the easiest way in the world. She had only to destroy gravi- 
tation. And the princess was a philosopher, and knew all the 
ins and outs of the laws of gravitation as -well as the ins and 
outs of her boot-lace. And being a witch as well, she could 
abrogate those laws in a moment, or at least so clog theii 
wheels and rust their bearings, that they would not work at all. 
But we have more to do with what followed than with how it 
was done. 

“The first awkwardness that resulted from this unhappy 
privation was, that the moment the nurse began to float the 
baby up and down, she flew from her arms towards the ceiling. 
Happily, the resistance of the air brought her ascending career 
to a close within a foot of it. There she remained, horizontal 
as when she left her nurse’s arms, kicking and laughing amaz- 
ingly. The nurse in terror flew to the bell, and begged the 


ADELA CATHCART. 


59 


footman, who answered it, to bring up the house-steps directly. 
Trembling in every limb, she climbed upon the steps, and had 
to stand upon the very top, and reach up, before she could 
catch the floating tail of the baby’s long clothes. 

“ When the strange fact came to be known, there was a 
terrible commotion in the palace. The occasion of its discovery 
by the king was naturally a repetition of the nurse’s experience. 
Astonished that he felt no weight when the child was laid in 
his arms, he began to wave her up and — not down, for she 
slowly ascended to the ceiling as before, and there remained 
floating in perfect comfort and satisfaction, as was testified by 
her peals of tiny laughter. The king stood staring up in 
speechless amazement, and trembled so that his beard shook 
like grass in the wind. At last, turning to the queen, who 
was just as horror-struck as himself, he said, gasping, staring, 
and stammering : — 

, “ 1 She can't be ours, queen.’ 

“Now the queen was much cleverer than the king, and had 
begun already to suspect that ‘ this effect defective came by 
cause.’ 

“‘Iam sure she is ours,’ answered she. 1 But we ought 
to have taken better care of her at the christening. People 
who were never invited ought not to have been present.’ 

“ 1 Oh, ho ! ’ said the king, tapping his forehead with his 
forefinger, 1 1 have it all. I’ve found her out. Don’t you see 
it, queen? Princess Makemnoit has bewitched her.’ 

“ ‘ That’s just what I say,’ answered the queen. 

“ ‘ I beg your pardon, my love, I did not hear you. John, 
bring the steps I get on my throne with.’ 

“For he was a little king with a great throne, like many 
other kings. 

“ The throne-steps were brought, and set upon the dining 
table, and John got upon the top of them. But he could not 
reach the little princess, who lay like a baby-laughter-cloud in 
the air, exploding continuously. 

“ ‘ Take the tongs, John,’ said his majesty, and, getting up 
on the table, he handed them to him. 

“John could reach the baby now, and the little princess 
was handed down by the tongs. 


60 


ADELA CATHCART. 


Chapter IV. — Where is she? 

u One fine summer day, a month after these her first adven« 
tures, during which time she had been very carefully watched, 
the princess was lying on the bed in the queen’s own chamber, 
fast asleep. One of the windows was open, for it was noon, 
and the day so sultry that the little girl was wrapped in nothing 
less ethereal than slumber itself. The queen came into the 
room, and, not observing that the baby was on the bed, opened 
another window. A frolicsome fairy w 7 ind, which had been 
w T atching for a chance of mischief, rushed in at the one window, 
and, taking its w T ay over the bed where the child was lying, 
caught her up, and rolling and floating her along like a piece 
of flue, or a dandelion-seed, carried her with it through the 
opposite window, and away. The queen went downstairs, 
quite ignorant of the loss she had herself occasioned. When 
the nurse returned, she supposed that her majesty had carried 
her off, and, dreading a scolding, delayed making inquiry about 
her. But, hearing nothing, she grew uneasy, and went at 
length to the queen's boudoir, where she found her majesty. 

“ ‘ Please your majesty, shall I take the baby ? ’ said she. | 

il 1 Where is she ? 5 asked the queen. 

u 1 Please forgive me. I know it was wrong.’ 

“ ‘ What do you mean ? ’ said the queen, looking grave. 

“ 1 Oh ! don’t frighten me, your majesty ! ’ exclaimed the 
nurse, clasping her hands. 

“The queen saw that something was amiss, and fell down 
in a faint. The nurse rushed about the palace, screaming, 

‘ My baby ! my baby ! ’ 

“ Every one ran to the queen’s room. But the queen 
could give no orders. They soon found out, however, that the 
princess was missing, and in a moment the palace was like a 
beehive in a garden. But in a minute more the queen was 
brought to herself by a great shout and a clapping of hands. 
They had found the princess fast asleep under a rosebush, to 
which the elvish little wind-puff had carried her, finishing its 
mischief by shaking a shower of red rose-leaves all over the 
little white sleeper. Startled by the noise the servants made, 


ADELA CATHCART. 


61 


she woke ; and, furious with glee, scattered the rose-leaves in 
all directions, like a shower of spray in the sunset. 
f “ She was watched more carefully after this, no doubt; yet 
it would be endless to relate all the odd incidents resulting 
from this peculiarity of the young princess. But there never 
was a baby in a house, not to say a palace, that kept a house- 
hold in such constant good-humor, at least below stairs. If it 
was not easy for her nurses to hold her, certainly she did not 
make their arms ache. And she was so nice to play at ball 
with ! There was positively no danger of letting her fall. You 
might throw her down, or knock her down, or push her down, 
but you couldn’t let her down. It is true, you might let her fly 
into the fire or the coal-hole, or through the window ; but none 
of these accidents had happened as yet. If you heard peals of 
laughter resounding from some unknown region, you might be 
sure enough of the cause. Going down into the kitchen, or the 
room , you would find Jane and Thomas, and Robert and Susan, 
all and sum, playing at ball with the little princess. She was 
the ball herself, and did not enjoy it the less for that. Away 
she went, flying from one to another, screeching with laugh- 
ter. And the servants loved the ball itself better even than 
the game. But they had to take care how they threw her, for, 
if she received an upward direction, she would never come 
down without being fetched. 


i 

“Chapter Y. — What is to be done? 

“But above stairs it was different. One day, for instance, 
after breakfast, the king went into his counting-house, and 
counted out his money. The operation gave him no pleasure. 

“ ‘ To think , 5 said he to himself, ‘that every one of these 
gold sovereigns weighs a quarter of an ounce, and my real, live 
flesh-and-blood princess weighs nothing at all ! 5 

“ And he hated his gold sovereigns, as they lay with abroad 
smile of self-satisfaction all over their yellow faces. 

“ The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey. 
But at the second mouthful, she burst out crying, and could 
not swallow it. The king heard her sobbing. Glad of any- 


62 


ADELA CATHCAET. 


body, but especially of his queen, to quarrel with, he clashed 
his gold sovereigns into his money-box, clapped his crown on 
his head, and rushed into the parlor. 

“ ‘ What is all this about ? ’ exclaimed he. 1 What are you 
crying for, queen ? ’ ! 

“ ‘I can’t eat it,’ said the queen, looking ruefully at the 
honey-pot. 

u£ No wonder!’ retorted the king. ‘You’ve just eaten 
your breakfast, — two turkey eggs, and three anchovies.’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! that’s not it ! ’ sobbed her majesty. It’s my child, 
my child ! ’ 

“ ‘ Well, what’s the matter with your child ? She’s neither 
up the chimney nor down the draw-well. J ust hear her 
laughing. Yet the king could not help a sigh, which he tried 
to turn into a cough, saying : — 

“ ‘ It is a good thing to be light-hearted, I am sure, whether 
she be ours or not.’ 

“ * It is a bad thing to be light-headed,’ answered the queen, 
looking, with prophetic soul, far into the future. 

“ ‘ ’Tis a good thing to be light-handed,’ said the king. 

“ ‘ ’Tis a bad thing to be light-fingered,’ answered the 
queen. 

“ ‘ ’Tis a good thing to be light-footed,’ said the king. 

“ ‘ ’Tis a bad thing,’ began the queen; but the king in- 
terrupted her. 

“ ‘ In fact,’ said he, with the tone of one who concludes an 
argument in which he has had only imaginary opponents, and 
in which, therefore, he has come off triumphant, — ‘ in fact, it 
is a good thing altogether to be light-bodied.’ 

“ ‘But it is a bad thing altogether to be light-minded,’ re- 
torted the queen, who was beginning to lose her temper. 

This last answer quite discomfited his majesty, who turned 
on his heel, and betook himself to his counting-house again 
But he was not half-way towards it, when the voice of his queer, 
overtook him : — 

“ ‘And it’s a bad thing to be light-haired,’ screamed she, 
determined to have more last words, now that her spirit was 
roused. 

“ The queen’s hair was black as night; and the king’s had 
been, and his daughter’s was golden as morning. But it was 


ADELA CATIICART. 


63 


not this reflection on his hair that troubled him ; it was the 
double use of the word light . For the king hated all witti- 
cisms, and punning especially. And besides he could not tell 
whether the queen meant light -haired or \\^\i-lieired ; for 
why might she not aspirate her vowels when she was ex-as- 
perated herself? ” 

“Now, really,” interrupted the clergyman, “I must pro- 
test. Mr. Smith, you bury us under an avalanche of puns, 
and. I must say, not very good ones. Now, the story, though 
humorous, is not of the kind to admit of such fanciful embel- 
lishment. It reminds one rather of a burlesque at a theatre, — 
the lowest thing, from a literary point of view, to be found.” 

“I submit,” was all I could answer; for I feared that he 
was right. The passage, as it now stands, is not nearly so 
bad as it was then, though, I confess, it is still bad enough. 

“I think,” said Mrs. Armstrong, “since criticism is the 
order of the evening, and Mr. Smith is so kind as not to mind 
it, that he makes the king and queen too silly. It takes away 
from the reality.” 

“Right, too, my dear madam,” I answered. 

“The reality of a fairy-tale?” said Mrs. Cathcart, as it 
asking a question of herself. 

“But will you grant me the justice,” said I, “to temper 
your judgments of me. if not of my story, by remembering 
that this is the first thing of the sort I ever attempted? ” 

“ I tell you what,” said the doctor, “'it’s very easy to criti- 
cise, but none of you could have written it yourselves.” 

“Of course not, for my part,” said the clergyman. 

Silence followed ; and I resumed. 

“ He turned upon his other heel, and rejoined her. She 
looked angry still, because she knew that she was guilty, or, 
what was much the same, knew that he thought so. 

“ 4 My dear queen/ said he, 4 duplicity of any sort is ex- 
ceedingly objectionable between married people, of any rank, 
not to say kings and queens ; and the most objectionable form 
it can assume is that of punning.’ 

“ 4 There ! ’ said the queen, 4 1 never made a jest, but I 
broke it in the making. I am the most unfortunate woman 
in the world ! ’ 


64 


ADELA CATnCART. 


“ She looked so rueful, that the king took her in his arms; 
and they sat down to consult. 

“ ‘ Can you bear this ? ’ said the king. 

“ ‘ No, I can’t,’ said the queen. 

“ ‘ Well, what’s to be done? ’ said the king. 

“‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ said the queen. ‘But might 
you not try an apology ? ’ 

“ ‘To my old sister, I suppose you mean? ’ said the king. 

“ ‘Yes,’ said the queen. 

“ * Well, I don’t mind,’ said the king. 

“ So he went the next morning to the garret of the princess, 
and, making a very humble apology, begged her to undo the 
spell. But the princess declared, with a very grave face, that 
she knew nothing at all about it. Her eyes, however, shone 
pink, which was a sign that she was happy. She advised the 
king and queen to have patience, and to mend their ways. 
The king returned disconsolate. The queen tried to comfort 
him. 

“ ‘ We will wait till she is older. She may then be able to 
suggest something herself. She will know at least how she 
feels, and explain things to us.’ 

“ ‘ But what if she should marry ! ’ exclaimed the king, in 
sudden consternation at the idea. 

“ ‘ Well, what of that? ’ rejoined the queen. 

“ 4 Just think ! If she were to have any children ! In the 
course of a hundred years the air might be as full of floating 
children as of gossamers in autumn.’ 

“‘That is no business of ours,’ replied the queen. 1 Be- 
sides, by that time, they will have learned to take care of 
themselves.’ 

“ A sigh was the king’s only answer. 

“He would have consulted the court physicians; but he 
was afraid they would try experiments upon her. 


“ Chapter VI. — She laughs too much. 

“ Meantime, notwithstanding awkward occurrences, and 
griefs that she brought her parents to, the little princess 
laughed and grew, — not fat, but plump and tall. Sho 


ADELA CATHCART. 


65 


reached the age of seventeen, without having fallen into any 
worse scrape than a chimney ; by rescuing her from which, a 
little bird-nesting urchin got fame and a black face. Nor, 
thoughtless as she was, had she committed anything worse 
than laughter at everybody and everything that came in her 
way. When she heard that General Clanrunfort was cut to 
pieces with all his forces, she laughed ; when she heard that 
the enemy was on his way to besiege her papa’s capital, she 
laughed hugely ; but when she heard that the city would 
most likely be abandoned to the mercy of the enemy’s soldiery, 
— why, then, she laughed immoderately. These were merely 
reports invented for the sake of experiment. But she never 
could be brought to see the serious side of anything. When 
her mother cried, she said : — 

“‘What queer faces mamma makes! And she squeezes 
water out of her cheeks ! Funny mamma ! 5 

“ And when her papa stormed at her, she laughed, and danced 
round and round him, clapping her hands, and crying : — 

“ ‘ Do it again, papa. Do it again ! It’s such fun. Dear, 
funny papa ! 9 

“ And if he tried to catch her, she glided from him in an 
instant ; not in the least afraid of him, but thinking it part of 
the game not to be caught. With one push of her foot, she 
would be floating in the air above his head ; or she would go 
dancing backwards and forwards and sideways, like a great 
butterfly. It happened several times, when her father and 
mother were holding a consultation about her in private, that 
they were interrupted by vainly repressed outbursts of laugh- 
ter over their heads ; and, looking up with indignation, saw 
her floating at full length in the air above them, whence she 
regarded them with the most comical appreciation of the 
position. 

“One day an awkward accident happened. The princess 
had come out upon the lawn with one of her attendants, who 
held her by the hand. Spying her father at the other side of 
the lawn, she snatched her hand from the maid’s, and sped 
across to him. Now, when she wanted to run alone, her 
custom was to catch up a stone in each hand, so that she 
might come down again after a bound. Whatever she wore as 
part of her attire had no effect in this way ; even gold, when 
it thus became as it were a part of herself, lost all its weight 


66 


ADELA CATIICART. 


for the time. But whatever she only held in her hands 
retained its downward tendency. On this occasion she could 
*ee nothing to catch up, but a huge toad, that was walking y 
across the lawn as if he had a hundred years to do it in. Not 
knowing what disgust meant, for this w T as one of her peculiar!- '• 
ties, she snatched up the toad, and bounded away. She had 
almost reached her father, and he was holding out his arms to 
receive her, and take from her lips the kiss which hovered on ■ 
them like a butterfly on a rosebud, when a puff of wind blew 
tier aside into the arms of a young page, who had just been 
receiving a message from his majesty. Now it was no great 
peculiarity in the princess that, once she was set a-going, it 
always cost her time and trouble to check herself. On thi3 j 
occasion there was no time. She must kiss, — and she kissed | 
the page. She did not mind it much ; for she had no shyness 
in her composition ; and she knew, besides, that she could not 
help it. So she only laughed, like a musical-box. The poor 
page fared the worst. For the princess, trying to correct the 
unfortunate tendency of the kiss, put out her hands to keep her 
off the page ; so that, along with the kiss, he received, on the 
other cheek, a slap with a huge black toad, which she poked 
right into his eye. He tried to laugh, too ; but it resulted in 
a very odd contortion of countenance, which showed that there 
was no danger of his pluming himself on the kiss. Indeed it 
is not safe to be kissed by princesses. As for the king, his 
dignity was greatly hurt, and he did not speak to the page for 
a whole month. 

“ I may here remark that it was very amusing to see her 
run, if her mode of progression could properly be called run- 
ning. For first she would make a bound ; then, having 
alighted, she would run a few step3, and make another bound. 
Sometimes she would fancy she had reached the ground before 
she actually had, and her feet would go backwards and for- 
wards, running upon nothing at all, like those of a chicken on 
its back. Then she would laugh like the very spirit of fun ; 
only in her laugh there was something missing. What it was, 

I find myself unable to describe. I think it was a certain 
tone, depending upon the possibility of sorrow, — morbidezza , 
perhaps. She never smiled.” 


ADELA CATIICAHT. 


07 


11 I am not sure about your physics, Mr. Smith,” said the 
doctor. “If she had no gravity, no amount of muscular pro- 
pulsion could have given her any momentum. And again, if 
she had no gravity, she must inevitably have ascended beyond 
the regions of the atmosphere.” 

“ Bottle your philosophy, Harry, with the rest of your 
physics,” said the clergyman, laughing. “ Don’t you see 
that she must have had some weight, only it wasn’t worth 
mentioning, being no greater than the ordinary weight of the 
atmosphere ? Besides, you know very well that a law of 
nature could not be destroyed. Therefore it was only witch- 
craft, you know ; and the laws of that remain to be discovered, 
— at least so far as my knowledge goes. Mr. Smith you 
have gone in for a fairy-tale ; and, if I were you, I would 
claim the immunities of Fairyland.” 

a So I do.” I responded fiercely, and went on. 


“ Chapter VII. — Try metaphysics. 

11 After a long avoidance of the painful subject, the king 
and queen resolved to hold a counsel of three upon it ; and so 
they sent for the princess. In she came, sliding and flitting 
and gliding from one piece of furniture to another, and put 
herself at last in an arm-chair, in a sitting posture. Whether 
she could be said to sit, seeing she received no support from 
the seat of the chair, I do not pretend to determine. 

“ 1 My dear child,’ said the king, 1 you must be aware that 
you are not exactly like other people.’ 

“ ‘ 0 you dear funny papa ! I have got a nose and two 
eyes and all the rest. So have you. So has mamma.’ 

“ ‘ Now be serious, my dear, for once,’ said the queen. 

“ ‘ No, thank you, mamma; I had rather not.’ 

“‘Would you not like to be able to walk like other 
people ? ’ said the king. 

“ ‘ No indeed, I should think not. You only crawl. You 
are such slow coaches ! ’ 

“ ‘ How do you feel, my child? ’ he resumed, after a pause 
of discomfiture. ' 


68 


ADELA CAT1ICART. 


i: £ Quite well, thank you.’ 

££ £ 1 mean, what do you feel like? 1 

££ * Like nothing at all, that I know of.’ 

u 1 You must feel like something.’ 

11 1 I feel like a princess, with such a funny papa, and such 
a dear pet of a queen-mamma ! ’ 

££ 1 Now, really ! ’ began the queen ; but the princess inter- 
rupted her. 

£££ 0h! yes,’ she added, ‘I remember. I have a curious 
feeling sometimes, as if I were the only person that had any 
sense in the whole world.’ 

“ She had been trying to behave herself with dignity; but 
now she burst into a violent fit of laughter, threw herself 
backwards over the chair, and went rolling about the floor in 
an ecstasy of enjoyment. The king picked her up easier than 
one does a down quilt, and replaced her in her former relation 
to the chair. The exact preposition expressing this relation I 
do not happen to know. 

“ ‘ Is there nothing you wish for? ’ resumed the king, who 
had learned by this time that it was quite useless to be angry 
with her. 

“ £ 0 you dear papa ! — yes,’ answered she. 

££ £ What is it, my darling? ’ 

££ £ I have been longing for it, — oh, such a time! Ever 
since last night.’ 

££ £ Tell me what it is.’ 

££ £ Will you promise to let me have it? ’ 

££ The king was on the point of saying yes ; but the wiser 
queen checked him with a single motion of her head. 

££ £ Tell me what it is first? ’ said he. 

££ £ No, no. Promise first.’ 

££ £ I dare not. What is it ? ’ 

££ £ Mind I hold you to your promise. It is — to be tied to 
the end of a string, — a very long string indeed, and be flown 
like a kite. Oh, such fun ! I would rain rose-water, and 
hail sugar-plums, and snow whipt-cream, and, and, and — ’ 

“ A fit of laughing choked her; and she would have been 
off again, over the floor, had not the king started up and caught 
her just in time. Seeing that nothing but talk could be got 


ADELA CATIICART. 


69 


out of her, he rang the bell, and sent her away with two of her 
ladies-in-waiting. 

“ ‘ Now, queen,’ he said, turning to her majesty, * what is 
to be done ? ’ 

"• ‘ There is but one thing left,’ answered she. ‘ Let us con- 
sult the college of metaphysicians.’ 

“ * Bravo ! ’ cried the king ; 1 we will.’ 

“ Now at the head of this college were two very wise Chi- 
nese philosophers, by name, Hum-Drum, and Kopy-Keck. 
For them the king went, and straightway they came. In a 
long speech, he communicated to them what they knew very 
well already, — as who did not? — namely, the peculiar con- 
dition of his daughter in relation to the globe on which she 
dwelt; and requested them to consult together as to what 
might be the cause and probable cure of her infirmity. The 
king laid stress upon the word, but failed to discover his own 
pun. The queen laughed ; but Hum-Drum and Kopy-Keck 
heard with humility and retired in silence. Their consulta- 
tion consisted chiefly in propounding and supporting, for the 
thousandth time, each his favorite theories. For the condi- 
tion of the princess afforded delightful scope for the discussion 
of every question arising from the division of thought, — in 
fact of all the Metaphysics of the Chinese Empire. But it is 
only justice to say that they did not altogether neglect the dis- 
cussion of the practical question, icliat was to be done. 

“ Hum-Drum was a Materialist, and Kopy-Keck was a 
Spiritualist. The former was slow and sententious ; the latter 
was cuick and flighty ; the latter had generally the first word; 
the former the last. 

“ ‘ I assert my former assertion,’ began Kopy-Keck, with 
a plunge. ‘ There is not a fault in the princess, body or soul ; 
only they are wrong put together. Listen to me now, Hum- 
Drum, and I will tell you in brief what I think. Don’t speak. 
Don’t answer me. I wont hear you till I have done. At 
that decisive moment, when souls seek their appointed habita- 
tions, two eager souls met, struck, rebounded, lost their way, 
and arrived each at the wrong place. The soul of the princess 
■was one of those, and she went far astray. She does not be- 
long by rights to this world at all, but to some other planet, 
probably Mercury. Her proclivity to her true sphere destroys 


70 


ADELA CATIICAPtT. 


all the natural influence which this orb would otherwise pos* 
sess over her corporeal frame. She cares for nothing here. 
There is no relation between her and this world. 

“ 1 She must therefore be taught, by the sternest compulsion, 
to take an interest in the earth as the earth. She must study 
every department of its history, — its animal history; its vege- , 
table history ; its mineral history ; its social history ; its moral 
history ; its political history ; its scientific history ; its literary 
history ; its musical history ; its artistical history ; above all, 
its metaphysical history. She must begin with the Chinese 
Dynasty, and end with Japan. But, first of all, she must study 
Geology, and especially the history of the extinct races of 
animals, — their natures, their habits, their loves, their hates, 
their revenges. She must — ’ 

“ ‘ Hold, h-o-o-old ! ’ roared Hum-Drum. ‘ It is certainly 
my turn now. My rooted and insubvertible conviction is that 
the causes of the anomalies evident in the princess’ condition 
are strictly and solely physical. But that is only tantamount 
to acknowledging that they exist. Hear my opinion. From 
some cause or other, of no importance to our inquiry, the mo- 
tion of her heart has been reversed. That remarkable combi- 
nation of the suction and the force pump works the wrong 
way, — I mean in the case of the unfortunate princess : it 
draws in where it should force out, and forces out where it 
should draw in. The offices of the auricles and the ventricles 
are subverted. The blood is sent forth by the veins, and re- 
turns by the arteries. Consequently it is running the wrong 
way through all her corporeal organism, — lungs and all. Is it 
then at all mysterious, seeing that such is the case, that on the 
other particular of gravitation as well, she should differ from 
normal humanity ? My proposal for the cure is this : — 

“ ‘ Phlebotomize until she is reduced to the last point of 
safety. Let it be effected, if necessary, in a warm bath. When 
she is reduced to a state of perfect asphyxy, apply a ligature 
to the left ankle, drawing it as tight as the bone will bear. 
Apply, at the same moment, another of equal tension around 
the right wrist. . By means of plates constructed for the pur- 
pose, plaoe the other foot and hand under the receivers of two 
air-pumps. Exhaust the receivers. Exhibit a pint of French 
brandy, and await the results.’ 


AD EL A CATHCART. 


71 


“ £ Which would presently arrive in the form of grim Death/ 
said Kopy-Keck. 

u 4 If it should, she would yet die in doing our duty/ re** 
torted Hum-Drum. 

44 But their majesties had too much tenderness for their 
volatile offspring to subject her to either of the schemes of the 
equally unscrupulous philosophers. Indeed, the most complete 
knowledge of the laws of nature would have been unservice- 
able in her case ; for it was impossible to classify her. She 
was a fifth imponderable body, sharing all the other properties 
of the ponderable. 


“Chapter VIII. — Try a drop of water. 

“ Perhaps the best thing for the princess would have been 
falling in love. But how a princess who had no gravity at all 
could fall into anything, is a difficulty, — perhaps the difficulty. 
As for her own feelings on the subject, she did not even know 
that there was such a beehive of honey and stings to be fallen 
into. And now I come to mention another curious fact about 
her. 

“ The palace was built on the shore of the loveliest lake in 
the world, and the princess loved this lake more than father or 
mother. The root of this preference, no doubt, — although the 
princess did not recognize it as such, — was, that the moment 
she got into it, she recovered the natural right of which she 
had been so wickedly deprived, — namely, gravity. Whether 
this was owing to the fact that water had been employed as the 
means of conveying the injury, I do not know. But it is 
certain that she could swim, and dive like the duck that her old 
nurse said she was. The way that this alleviation of her 
misfortune was discovered, w T as as follows : One summer 
evening, during the carnival of the country, she had been 
taken upon the lake by the king and queen, in the royal barge. 
They were accompanied by many of the courtiers in a fleet of 
little boats. In the middle of the lake she wanted to get into 
the lord chancellor’s barge, for his daughter, who was a great 
favorite with her, was in it with her father. The old king 
rarely condescended to make light of his misfortune, but on 


72 


ADELA CATHCART. 


this occasion he happened to be in a particularly good-humor, 
and, as the barges approached each other, he caught up the 
princess to throw her into the chancellor's barge. He lost 
his balance, however, and, dropping into the bottom of the 
barge, lost his hold of hi3 daughter, not, however, before im- 
parting to her the downward tendency of his own person, 
though in a somewhat different direction, for, as the king fell 
into the boat, she fell into the water. With a burst of delighted 
laughter, she disappeared in the lake. A cry of horror ascended 
from the boats. They had never seen the princess go down 
before. Half the men were under water in a moment, but 
they had all, one after another, come up to the surface again 
for breath, when, — tinkle, tinkle, babble and gush, came the 
princess’ laugh over the water from far away. There she 
was, swimming like a swan. Nor would she come out for king 
or queen, chancellor or daughter. But though she was obstinate, 
she seemed more sedate than usual. Perhaps that was because 
a great pleasure spoils laughing. After this the passion of her 
life was to get into the water, and she was always the better 
behaved and the more beautiful, the more she had of it. Sum- 
mer and winter it was all the same, only she could not stay 
quite so long in the water when they had to break the ice to 
let her in. Any day, from morning till evening, she might be 
descried, — a streak of white in the blue water, — lying as 
still as the shadow of a cloud, or shooting along like a dolphin, 
disappearing, and coming up again far off, just where one did 
not expect her. She would have been in the lake of a night 
too, if she could have had her way, for the balcony of her 
window overhung a deep pool in it, and through a shallow reedy 
passage she could have swum out into the wide wet water, and 
no one would have been any the wiser. Indeed, when she 
happened to wake in the moonlight, she could hardly resist 
the temptation. But there was the sad difficulty of getting 
into it. She had as great a dread of the air as some children 
have of the water. For the slightest gust of wind would blow 
her away, and a gust might arise in the stillest moment. And 
if she gave herself a push towards the water and just failed of 
reaching it, her situation would be dreadfully awkward, irre- 
spective of the wind, for at best there she would have to remain, 








ADELA CATIICART. 


73 


suspended in her night-gown till she was seen and angled for 
by somebody from the window. 

“ 1 Oh ! if I had my gravity,’ thought she, contemplating the 
water, c I would flash off this balcony like a long white sea-bird, 
headlong into the darling wetness. Ileigh-ho !’ 

11 This was the only consideration that made her wish to be 
like other people. 

“ Another reason for being fond of the water was that in it 
alone she enjoyed any freedom. For she could not walk out 
without a cortege, consisting in part of a troop of light horse, 
for fear of the liberties which the wind might take with her. 
And the king grew more apprehensive with increasing years, 
till at last he would not allow her to walk abroad without some 
twenty silken cords fastened to as many parts of her dress, and 
held by twenty noblemen. Of course horseback was out of 
the question. But she bade good-by to all this ceremony 
when she got into the water. So remarkable were its effects 
upon her, especially in restoring her for the time to the ordi- 
nary human gravity, that, strange to say, Hum-Drum and 
Kopy-Iveck agreed in recommending the king to bury her alive 
for three years, in the hope that, as the water did her so much 
good, the earth would do her yet more. But the king had 
some vulgar prejudices against the experiment, and would not 
give his consent. Foiled in this, they yet agreed in another 
recommendation, which, seeing that the one imported his 
opinions from China and the other from Thibet, was very 
remarkable indeed. They said, that if water of external 
origin and application could be so efficacious, water from a 
deeper source might work a perfect cure ; in short, that, if the 
poor, afflicted princess could by any means be made to cry. she 
might recover her lost gravity. 

“ But how was this to be brought about? Therein lay all 
the difficulty. The philosophers were not wise enough for this. 
To make the princess cry was as impossible as to make her 
weigh. They sent for a professional beggar, commanded him 
to prepare his most touching oracle of woe, helped him, out of 
the court charade-box, to whatever he wanted for dressing up, 
and promised great rewards in the event of his success. But 
it was all in vain. She listened to the mendicant artist’s story, 
and gazed at his marvellous make-up, till she could contain 


74 


AD EL A CATIICART. 


herself no longer, and went into the most undignified eontor- 
tions for relief, shrieking, positively screeching with laughter. 

“ When she had a little recovered herself, she ordered her 
attendants to drive him away, and not give him a single cop- : 
per ; whereupon his look of mortified discomfiture wrought her 
punishment and his revenge, for it sent her into violent hys- 
terics, from which she was with difficulty recovered. 

“But so anxious was the king that the suggestion should 
have a fair trial, that he put himself in a rage one day, and, 1 
rushing up to her room, gave her an awful whipping. But 
not a tear would flow. She looked grave, and her laughing 
sounded uncommonly like screaming, — that was all. The 
good old tyrant, though he put on his best gold spectacles to 
look, could not discover the smallest cloud in the serene blue 
of her eyes. 


“ Chafter IX. — Put me in again. 

“ It must have been about this time that the son of a king, 
who lived a thousand miles from Lagobel, set out to look for 
the daughter of a queen. He travelled far and wide, but as 
sure as he found a princess he found some fault with her. j 
Of course he could not marry a mere woman, however beau- 
tiful ; and there was no princess to be found worthy of him. 
Whether the prince was so near perfection that he had a right 
to demand perfection itself, I cannot pretend to say. All I 
know is, that he was a fine, handsome, brave, generous, well- 
bred and well-behaved youth, as all princes arc. 

In his wanderings he had come across some reports about 
our princess; but, as everybody said she was bewitched, he 
never dreamed that she could bewitch him. For what indeed 
could a prince do with a princess that had lost her gravity ? 
Who could tell what she might not lose next? She might 
lose her visibility, or her tangibility ; or, in short, the power 
of making impressions upon the radical sensorium ; so that he 
should never be able to tell whether she was dead or alive. 
Of course he made no further inquiries about her. 

“ One day he lost sight of his retinue in a great forest. 
These forests are very useful in delivering princes from their 


ADELA CATIICART. 


75 


courtiers, like «a sieve that keeps back the bran. Then the 
princes get away to follow their fortunes. In this they have 
the advantage of the princesses, who are forced to marry 
before they have had a bit of fun. I wish our princesses got 
lost in a forest sometimes. 

u One lovely evening, after wandering about for many days, 
he found that he was approaching the outskirts of this forest ; 
for the trees had got so thin that he could see the sunset 
through them ; and he soon came upon a kind of heath. 
Next he came upon signs of human neighborhood; but by 
this time it was getting late, and there was nobody in the 
fields to direct him. 

“ After travelling for another hour, his horse, quite worn 
out with long labor and lack of food, fell, and was unable to 
rise again. So he continued his journey on foot. At length 
he entered another wood, — not a wild forest, but a civilized 
wood, through which a footpath led him to the side of a lake. 
Along this path the prince pursued his way through the gathering 
darkness. Suddenly he paused, and listened. Strange sounds 
came across the water. It was, in fact, the princess laughing. 
Now, there was something odd in her laugh, as I have already 
hinted ; for the hatching of a real hearty laugh requires the 
incubation of gravity ; and, perhaps, this was how the prince 
mistook the laughter for screaming. Looking over the lake, 
he saw something white in the water ; and, in an instant, he 
had torn off his tunic, kicked off his sandals, and plunged in. 
He soon reached the white object, and found that it was a 
woman. There was not light enough to show that she was a 
princess, but quite enough to show that she was a lady, for it 
does not want much light to see that. 

“Now, I cannot tell how it came about, — whether she 
pretended to be drowning, or whether he frightened her, or 
caught her so as to embarrass her ; but certainly he brought 
her to shore in a fashion ignominious to a swimmer, and more 
nearly drowned than she had ever expected to be ; for the 
water had got into her throat as often as she had tried to speak. 

“ At the place to which he bore her, the bank was only a 
foot or two above the water ; so he gave her a strong lift out 
of the water, to lay her on the bank. But, her gravitation 


76 


ADELA CATIICART. 


ceasing the moment she left the water, away she went, up 
into the air, scolding and screaming : — 

“ £ You naughty, naughty , naughty, NAUGHTY man! ’ | 
“ No one had ever succeeded in putting her into a passion 
before. When the prince saw her ascend, he thought he 
must have been bewitched, and have mistaken a great swan for \ 
a lady. But the princess caught hold of the topmost cone 
.upon a lofty fir. This came off; but she caught at another; 1 
and, in fact, stopped herself by gathering cones, dropping 
them as the stalks gave way. The prince, meantime, stood in 
the water, forgetting to get out. But the princess disappear- ■ 
ing, he scrambled on shore, and went in the direction of the 
tree. He found her climbing down one of the branches, , 
towards the stem. But in the darkness of the wood, the 
prince continued in some bewilderment as to what the phenom- 
enon could be; until, reaching the ground, and seeing him 
standing there, she caught hold of him, and said : — 

“ 1 1 11 tell papa.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, no, you won’t ! ’ rejoined the prince. 

“ 1 Yes, I will,’ she persisted. 1 What business had you to 
pull me down out of the water, and throw me to the bottom of 
the air? I never did you any barm.’ 

“ 1 I am sure I did not mean to hurt you.’ 

“ £ I don’t believe you have any brains ; and that is a worse 
loss than your wretched gravity. I pity you.’ 

“ The prince now saw that he had come upon the bewitched 
princess, and had already offended her. Before he could 
think what to say next, the princess, giving a stamp with her 
foot that would have sent her aloft again, but for the hold she 
had of his arm, said angrily : — 

“‘Put me up directly.’ 

“ ‘ Put you up where, you beauty?’ asked the prince. 

“lie had fallen in love with her, almost, already; for her 
anger made her more charming than any one else had ever be- 
held her ; and, as far as he could see, which certainly was not 
far, she had not a single fault about her, except, of course, 
that she had no gravity. A prince, however, must be incapa- 
ble of judging of a princess by weight. The loveliness of a 
foot, for instance, is hardly to be estimated by the depth of 
the impression it can make in mud ! 


ADELA CATHCART. 


77 


4 Put you up where, you beauty? ’ said the prince. 

“ 1 In the water, you stupid ! ’ answered the princess. 

44 4 Come, then,’ said the prince. 

“ The condition of her dress, increasing her usual difficulty 
in walking, compelled her to cling to him ; and he could hardly 
persuade himself that he was not in a delightful dream, not- 
withstanding the torrent of musical abuse with which she over- 
whelmed him. The prince being in no hurry, they reached 
the lake at quite another part, where the bank was twenty-five 
feet high at least. When they stood at the edge, the prince, 
turning towards the princess, said : — 

44 ‘ How am I to put you in ? ’ 

44 ‘That is your business,’ she answered, quite snappishly. 
4 You took me out, — put me in again.’ 

44 4 Very well,’ said the prince ; and, catching her up in his 
arms, he sprang with her from the rock. The princess had 
just time to give one delightful shriek of laughter before the 
-water closed over them. When they came to the surface, the 
princess, for a moment or two, could not even laugh, for she 
had gone down with such a rush, that it was with difficulty 
that she recovered her breath. The moment they reached the 
surface : — 

44 4 How do you like falling in? ’ said the prince. 

44 After a few efforts, the princess panted out : — 

44 4 Is that what you call falling in? ' 

44 4 Yes,’ answered the prince, 4 I should think it a very tol- 
erable specimen.’ 

44 4 It seemed to me like going up,’ rejoined she. 

“ ‘My feeling was certainly one of elevation, too,’ the 
prince conceded. 

44 The princess did not appear to understand him, for she 
retorted his first question : — 

44 4 How do you like falling in? ’ 

44 4 Beyond everything,’ answered he; 4 for I have fallen in 
with the only perfect creature I ever saw.’ 

44 4 No more of that; I am tired of it,’ said the princess. 

“ Perhaps she shared her father's aversion to punning. 

' 4 4 Don’t you like falling in, then? ’ said the prince. 

“ 4 It is the most delightful fun I ever had in my life/ 
answered she. 4 1 never fell before. I wish I could learn, 


78 


ADELA CATHCART. 


To think I am the only person in my father’s kingdom that 
can’t fall ! ’ 

11 Here the poor princess looked almost sad. 

11 1 I shall be most happy to fall in with you any time you 
like,’ said the prince, devotedly. 

u 1 Thank you. I don’t know. Perhaps it would not bo 
proper. But I don't care. At all events, as we have fallen 
in, let us have a swim together.’ 

u 1 With all my heart,’ said the prince. 

11 And away they went, swimming, and diving, and floating, 
until at last they heard cries along the shore, and saw lights 
glancing in all directions. It was now quite late, and there 
was no moon. 

“ ‘ I must go home,’ said the princess. 1 1 am very sorry, 
for this is delightful.’ 

“ ‘ So am I,’ responded the prince. ‘ But I am glad I 
haven’t a home to go to, — at least, I don’t exactly know 
where it is.’ 

“ 1 1 wish I hadn’t one either,” rejoined the princess ; c it is 
so stupid! I have a great mind,’ she continued, 1 to play 
them all a trick. Why couldn't they leave me alone? They 
won’t trust me in the lake for a single night ! You see where i 
that green light is burning ? That is the window of my room. 
Now if you would just swim there with me very quietly, and 
when we are all but under the balcony, give me such a push 
— up you call it — as you did a little while ago, I should be 
able to catch hold of the balcony, and get in at the window ; 
and then they may look for me till to-morrow morning ! ’ 

“ ‘ With more obedience than pleasure,’ said the prince 
gallantly ; and away they swam, very gently. 

11 1 Will you be in the lake to-morrow night? ’ the prince 
ventured to ask. 

' ■ To be sure I will. I don’t think so. Perhaps,’ — was 
the piincess’ somewhat strange answer. 

u But the prince was intelligent enough not to press her 
further ; and merely whispered, as he gave her the parting 
lift : 1 Don’t tell.’ The only answer the princess returned 
was a roguish look. She was already a yard above his head. 
The look seemed to say : 1 Never fear. It is too good fun to 
spoil that way.’ • z 


ADELA CATHCART. 


T9 


11 So perfectly like other people had she been in the water, 
that even yet the prince could scarcely believe his eyes when 
he saw her ascend slowly, grasp the balcony, and disappear 
through the window. He turned, almost expecting to see her 
still by his side. But he was alone in the water. So he 
swam away quietly, and watched the lights roving about the 
shore for hours after the princess was safe in her chamber. 
As soon as they disappeared, he landed in search of his tunic 
and sword, and, after some trouble, found them again. Then 
he made the best of his way round the lake to the other side. 
There the wood was wilder, and the shore steeper, — rising 
more immediately towards the mountains which surrounded 
the lake on all sides, and kept sending it messages of silvery 
streams from morning to night, and all night long. He soon 
found a spot whence he could see the green light in the prin- 
cess’ room, and where, even in the broad daylight, he would 
be in no danger of being discovered from the opposite shore. 
It was a sort of cave in the rock, where he provided himself a 
bed of withered leaves, and lay down too tired for hunger to 
keep him awake. All night long he dreamed that he was 
swimming with the princess.” 

11 All that is very improper, — to my mind,” said Mrs. 
Cathcart. And she glanced towards the place where Percy 
had deposited himself, as if she were afraid of her boy’s 
morals. 

But if she was anxious on that score, her fears must have 
been dispersed the same moment by an indubitable snore from 
the youth, who was in his favorite position, — lying at full 
length on a couch. 

“ You must remember all this is in Fairyland, aunt,” said 
Adela, with a smile. “ Nobody does what papa and mamma 
would not like here. We must not judge the people in fairy- 
tales by precisely the same conventionalities we have. They 
must be good after their own fashion ” 

“ Conventionalities ! Humph ! ” said Mrs. Cathcart. 

“ Besides, I don’t think the princess was quite accounta- 
ble,” said I. 

“ You should have made her so, then,” rejoined my critic. 

‘ Oh ! wait a little, madam,” I replied. 


80 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“I think,” said the clergyman, “that Miss Cathcart’s 
defence is very tolerably sufficient ; and in my character of 
Master of the Ceremonies, I order Mr. Smith to proceed.” 

I made haste to do so, before Mrs. Cathcart should open a 
new battery. 


“Chapter X. — Look at the moon. 

“ Early the next morning, the prince set out to look for 
something to eat, -which he soon found at a forester’s hut, | 
where for many following days he was supplied with all that a 
brave prince could consider necessary. And, having plenty to 
keep him alive for the present, he would not think of wants 
not yet in existence. Whenever Care intruded, this prince 
always bowed him out in the most princely manner. 

“ When he returned from his breakfast to his watcH-cave, 
he saw the princess already floating about in the lake, attended 
by the king and queen, — whom lie knew by their crowns, — 
and a great company in lovely little boats, with canopies of 
all the colors of the rainbow, and flags and streamers of a 
great many more. It was a very bright day, and soon the 
prince, burned up with the heat, began to long for the water 
and the cool princess. But he had to endure till the twilight ; 
for the boats had provisions on board, and it was not till the 
sun went down, that the gay party began to vanish. Boat 
after boat drew away to the shore, following that of the king 
md queen, till only one, apparently the princess’ own boat, 
remained. But she did not want to go home even yet, and the 
prince thought he saw her order the boat to the shore without 
her. At all events, it rowed away ; and now, of all the 
radiant company, only one white speck remained. Then the 
prince began to sing. 

“And this was what he sang : — 

“ ‘ Lady fair, 

Swan-white, 

Lift thine eyes, 

Banish night 
By the might 


ADELA CATHCART. 


81 


Snowy arms, 

Oars of snow, 

Oar her hither, 

Plashing low. 

Soft and slow, 

Oar her hither. 

Stream behind her 
O’er the lake, 

Radiant whiteness 1 
In her wake 

Following, following for her sake. 
Radiant whiteness ! 


Cling about her, 

Waters blue; 

Part not from her, 

But renew 
Cold and true 
Kisses round her. 

Lap me round, 

Waters sad 
That have left her ; 

Make me glad, 

For ye had 

Kissed her ere ye left her. 


u Before he had finished his song, the princess was just 
under the place where he sat, and looking up to find him. 
Her ears had led her truly. 

“ 1 Would you like a fall, princess?’ said the prince / 
looking down. 

<l £ Ah ! there you are. Yes, if you please, prince,’ said the 
princess, looking up. 

C( 1 How do you know I am a prince, princess?’ said the 
prince. 

“ £ Because you are a very nice young man, prince,’ said the 
princess. 

u ‘ Come up then, princess.’ 

u 1 Fetch me, prince.’ 

“ The prince took off his scarf, then his sword-belt, then his 
tunic, and tied them all together, and let them down. But the 
line was far too short. He unwound his turban, and added it 
to the rest, when it was all but long enough, and his purse 
completed it. The princess just managed to lay hold of the 
knot of money, and was beside him in a moment. This rock 


82 


ADELA CATIICART. 


was much higher than the other, and the splash and the dive 
were tremendous. The princess was in ecstasies of delight, 
and their swim was delicious. 

“ Night after night they met, and swam about in the dark, 
clear lake, where such was the prince’s delight, that (whether 
the princess’ way of looking at things infected him, or he 
was actually getting light-headed) he often fancied that he 
was swimming in the sky instead of the lake. But when he 
talked about being in heaven, the princess laughed at him 
dreadfully. 

“ When the moon came, she brought them fresh pleasure. 
Everything looked strange and new in her light, with an old. 
withered, yet unfading newness. When the moon was nearly 
full, one of their great delights was, to dive deep in the water, 
and then, turning round, look up through it at the great blot 
of light close above them, shimmering and trembling and 
wavering, spreading and contracting, seeming to melt away, 
and again grow solid. Then they would shoot up through it; 
and lo ! there was the moon, far off, clear and steady and cold, 
and very lovely, at the bottom of a deeper and bluer lake 
than theirs, as the princess said. 

“The prince soon found out that while in the water the 
princess was very like other people. And, besides this, she 
was not so forward in her questions, or pert in her replies at 
sea as on shore. Neither did she laugh so much ; and when 
she did laugh it was more gently. She seemed altogether 
more modest and maidenly in the w r ater than out of it. But 
when the prince, w T ho had really fallen in love when he fell in 
the lake, began to talk to her about love, she always turned 
her head towards him and laughed. After a while she began 
to look puzzled, as if she were trying to understand what he 
meant, but could not, — revealing a notion that he meant 
something. But as soon as ever she left the lake, she was so 
altered, that the prince said to himself : ‘ If I marry her, I 
see no help for it, we must turn merman and mermaid, and go 
out to sea at once.’ 


ADELA CATHCART. 


83 


“ Chapter XI. — Hiss ! 

<£ The princess’ pleasure in the lake had grown to a passion, 
and she could scarcely bear to be out of it for an hour. Imagine, 
then, her consternation, when, diving with the prince one night, 
a sudden suspicion seized her, that the lake was not so deep as 
it used to be. The prince could not imagine what had hap- 
pened. She shot to the surface, and, without a word, swam at 
full speed towards the higher side of the lake. He followed, 
begging to know if she was ill, or what was the matter. She 
never turned her head, or took the smallest notice of his 
question. Arrived at the shore she coasted the rocks with 
minute inspection. But she was not able to come to a conclu- 
sion, for the moon was very small, and so she could not see well. 
She turned therefore and swam home, without saying a word 
to explain her conduct to the prince, of whose presence she 
seemed no longer conscious. He withdrew to his cave, in great 
perplexity and distress. 

“ Next day she made many observations, which, alas 1 
strengthened her fears. She saw that the banks were too dry, 
and that the grass on the shore and the trailing plants on the 
rocks were withering away. She caused marks to be made 
along the borders, and examined them day after day, in all 
directions of the wind, till at last the horrible idea became a 
certain fact, — that the surface of the lake was slowly sinking. 

“ The poor princess nearly w r ent out of the little mind she had. 
It was awful to her, to see the lake which she loved more than 
any living thing, lie dying before her eyes. It sank away, 
slowly vanishing. The tops of rocks that had never been seen 
before began to appear far down in the clear water. Before 
long, they were dry in the sun It was fearful to think of 
the mud that would lie baking and festering, full of lovely 
creatures dying, and ugly creatures coming to life, like the 
unmaking of a world. And how hot the sun would be without 
any lake ! She could not bear to swim in it, and began to 
pine away. Her life seemed bound up with it, and ever as the 
lake sank, she pined. People said she would not live an hour 
after the lake was gone. But she never cried. 

“ Proclamation was made to all the kingdom, that whosoever 


84 


ADELA CATHCART. 


should discover the cause of the lake’s decrease would be 
rewarded after a princely fashion. Hum-Drum and Kopy- 
Keck applied themselves to their physics and metaphysics, but 
in vain. No one came forward to suggest a cause.* 

“Now the fact was, that the old princess was at the root of 
the mischief. When she heard that her niece found more pleas- 
ure in the water than any one else had out of it, she went 
into a rage, and cursed herself for her want of foresight. 

“ { But,’ said she, ‘ I will soon set all right. The king 
and the people shall die of thirst ; their brains shall boil and 
frizzle in their skulls, before I shall lose my revenge.’ 

“ And she laughed a ferocious laugh, that made the hairs 
on the back of her black cat stand erect with terror. 

“ Then she went to an old chest in the room, and, opening 
it, took out what looked like a piece of dried sea-weed. This 
she threw into a tub of water. Then she threw some powder 
into the water, and stirred it with her bare arm, muttering 
over it words of hideous sound, and yet more hideous import. 
Then she set the tub aside, and took from the chest a huge 
bunch of a hundred rusty keys, that clattered in her shaking 
hands. Then she sat down and proceeded to oil them all. Be- 
fore she had finished, out from the tub, the water of which had 
kept on a slow motion ever since she had ceased stirring it, 
came the head and half the body of a huge gray snake. But 
the witch did not look round. It grew out of the tub, waving 
itself backwards and forwards with a slow, horizontal motion, 
till it reached the princess, when it laid its head upon her 
shoulder, and gave a low hiss in her ear. She started — but 
with joy ; and, seeing the head resting on her shoulder, drew 
it towards her and kissed it. Then she drew it all out of the 
tub, and wound it round her body. It was one of those dread- 
ful creatures which few have ever beheld, — the White Snakes 
of Darkness. 

“ Then she took the keys and went down into her cellar; 
and, as she unlocked the door, she said to herself: — 

“ ‘ This is worth living for ! ’ 

“ Locking the door behind her, she descended a few steps 
into the cellar, and, crossing it, unlocked another door into a 
dark, narrow* passage. This also she locked behind her, and 
descended a few more steps. If any one had followed the 


ADELA CATIICART. 


85 


witch-princess, he would have heard her unlock exactly one 
hundred doors, and descend a few steps after unlocking each. 
When she had unlocked the last, she entered a vast cave, the 
roof of which was supported by huge natural pillars of rock 
Now this roof was the underside of the bottom of the lake. 

“ She then untwined the snake from her body, and held it 
by the tail high above her. The hideous creature stretched 
up its head towards the roof of the cavern, which it was just 
able to reach. It then began to move its head backwards and 
forwards, with a slow, oscillating motion, as if looking for some- 
thing. At the same moment, the witch began to walk round 
and round the cavern, coming nearer to the centre every cir- 
cuit ; while the head of the snake described the same path over 
the roof that she did over the floor, for she held it up still. 
And still it kept slowly oscillating. Round and round the 
cavern they went thus, ever lessening the circuit, till, at last, 
the snake made a sudden dart, and clung fast to the roof with 
its mouth. 1 That’s right, my beauty ! ’ cried the princess ; 
‘ drain it dry.’ 

“ She let it go, left it hanging, and sat down on a great 
stone, with her black cat, who had followed her all around the 
cave, by her side. Then she began to knit, and mutter awful 
words. The snake hung like a huge leech, sucking at the 
stone ; the cat stood with his back arched, and his tail like a 
piece of cable, looking up at the snake ; and the old woman 
sat and knitted and muttered. Seven days and seven nights 
they sat thus ; when suddenly the serpent dropped from the 
roof, as if exhausted, and shrivelled up like a piece of dried 
sea-weed on the floor. The witch started to her feet, picked it 
up, put it in her pocket, and looked up at the roof. One drop 
of water was trembling on the spot where the snake had been 
sucking. As soon as she saw that, she turned and fled, fol- 
lowed by her cat. She shut the door in a terrible hurry, 
locked it, and, having muttered some frightful words, sped to 
the next, which also she locked and muttered over; and so 
with all the hundred doors, till she arrived in her own cellar. 
There she sat down on the floor ready to faint, but listening 
with malicious delight to the rushing of the water, which she 
could hear distinctly through all the hundred doors. 

“ But this was not enough. Now that she had tasted 


86 


ADELA CATHCART. 


revenge, she lost her patience. Without further measures, 
the lake would be too long in disappearing. So the next night, 
with the last shred of the dying old moon rising, she took some 
of the water in which she had revived the snake, put it in a 
bottle, and set out, accompanied by her cat. Ere she returned, 
she had made the entire circuit of the lake, muttering fearful 
words as she crossed every stream, and casting into it some of 
the water out of her bottle. When she had finished the cir- 
cuit, she muttered yet again, and flung a handful of the water 
towards the moon. Every spring in the country ceased to 
throb and bubble, dying away like the pulse of a dying man. 
The next day there was no sound of falling water to be heard 
along the borders of the lake. The very courses were dry ; 
and the mountains showed no silvery streaks down their dark 
sides. And not alone had the fountains of mother Earth ceased 
to flow ; for all the babies throughout the country were crying 
dreadfully, — only without tears. 


“ Chapter XII. — Where is the prince? 

u Never since the night when the princess left him so 
abruptly, had the prince had a single interview with her. He 
had sent her once or twice in the lake ; but as far as he could 
discover, she had not been in it any more at night. He had 
sat and sung, and looked in vain for his Nereid ; while she, 
like a true Nereid, was wasting away with her lake, sinking as 
it sank, withering as it dried. When at length he discovered 
the change that was taking place in the level of the water, he 
was in great alarm and perplexity. He could not tell whether 
the lake was dying because the lady had forsaken it; or 
whether the lady would not come because the lake had begun 
to sink. But he resolved to know so much at least. 

11 He disguised himself, and, going to the palace, requested 
to see the lord chamberlain. His appearance at once gained 
his request ; and the lord chamberlain, being a man of some in- 
sight, perceived that there was more in the prince's solicitation 
than met the ear. He felt likewise that no one could tell 
whence a solution of the present difficulties might arise. Sa 


ADELA CATIICART. 


87 


he granted the prince’s prayer to be made shoeblack to the 
princess. It was rather knowing in the prince to request such 
an easy post ; for the princess could not possibly soil as many 
shoes as other princesses. 

“ He soon learned all that could be told about the princess, 
lie went nearly distracted ; but, after roaming about the lake 
for days, and diving in every depth that remained, all that he 
could do was to put an extra polish on the dainty pair of boots 
that was never called for. 

u For the princess kept her room, with the curtains drawn to 
shut out the dying lake. But she could not shut it out of her 
mind for a moment. It haunted her imagination so that she 
felt as if her lake were her soul, drying up within her, first to 
become mud, and then madness and death. She brooded over 
the change, with all its dreadful accompaniments, till she was 
nearly out of her mind. As for the prince, she had forgotten 
him. However much she had enjoyed his company in the 
water, she did not care for him without it. But she seemed to 
have forgotten her father and mother too. 

“ The lake went on sinking. Small slimy spots began to 
appear, which glittered steadily amidst the changeful shine of 
the water. These grew to broad patches of mud, which 
widened and spread, with rocks here and there, and flounder- 
ing fishes and crawling eels swarming about. The people 
went everywhere catching these, and looking for anything that 
might have been dropped into the water. 

“At length the lake was all but gone; only a few of the 
deepest pools remaining unexhausted. 

“ It happened one day that a party of youngsters found 
themselves on the brink of one of these pools, in the very cen- 
tre of the lake. It was a rocky basin of considerable depth. 
Looking in, they saw at the bottom something that shone yel- 
low in the sun. A little boy jumped in and dived for it. It 
was a plate of gold, covered with writing. They carried it to 
the king. 

“ On one side of it stood these words : — 

(t ‘ Death alone from death can save 
Love is death, and so is brave. 

Love can fill the deepest grave. 

Love loves on beneath the wave.* 


88 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ Now this was enigmatical enough to the king and court- 
iers. But the reverse of the plate explained it a little. Its 
contents amounted to this : — 

“ ‘ If the lake should disappear, they must find the hole 
through which the water ran. But it would be useless to try 
to stop it by any ordinary means. There was but one effect- | 
ual mode. The body of a living man could alone stanch the | 
flow. The man must give himself of his own will ; and the 
lake must take his life as it filled. Otherwise the offering 
would be of no avail. If the nation could not provide one 
hero, it was time it should perish.’ 

— 

“ Chapter XIII. — Here I am. 

“This was a very disheartening revelation to the king. 
Not that he was unwilling to sacrifice a subject, but that he 
was hopeless of finding a man willing to sacrifice himself. No 
time could be lost, however ; for the princess was lying mo- 
tionless on her bed, and taking no nourishment but lake-water, 
which was now none of the best. Therefore the king caused 
the contents of the wonderful plate of gold to be published 
throughout the country. 

“ No one, however, came forward. 

“The prince, having gone several days’ journey into the 
forest, to consult a hermit whom he had met there on his way 
to Lagobel, knew nothing of the oracle till his return. 

“When he had acquainted himself with all the particulars, 
he sat down and thought. 

“ 1 She would die, if I didn’t do it; and life would be noth- 
ing to me without her ; so I shall lose nothing by doing it. 
And life will be as pleasant to her as ever, for she will soon 
ibrget me, and there will be so much more beauty and happi- 
ness in the world. To be sure I shall not see it.’ — Here the 
poor prince gave a sigh. — ‘ How lovely the lake will be in 
the moonlight, with that glorious creature sporting in it like a 
wild goddess ! It is rather hard to be drowned by inches, 
though. Let me see, — that will be seventy inches of me to 
drown.’ — Here l}p tried to laugh, but could not. — ‘The 


ADELA CATHCART. 


longer the better, however,’ he resumed; ‘for can I not bar- 
gain that the princess shall be beside me all the time ? So I 
shall see her once more, — kiss her perhaps, who knows ? — and 
die looking in her eyes. It will be no death. At least I 
shall not feel it. And to see the lake filling for the beauty 
again ! — All right ! I am ready.’ 

“ He kissed the princess’ boot, laid it down, and hurried to 
the king’s apartment. But feeling, as he went, that anything 
sentimental would be disagreeable, he resolved to carry off the 
whole affair with burlesque. So he knocked at the door of 
the king’s counting-house, where it was all but a capital crime 
to disturb him. When the king heard the knock, he started 
up, and opened the door in a rage. Seeing only the shoe- 
black, he drew his sword. This, I am sorry to say, was his 
usual mode of asserting his regality, when he thought his dig- 
nity was in danger. But the prince was not in the least 
alarmed. 

“ ‘ Please your majesty, I'm your butler,’ said he. 
u ‘ My butler ! you lying rascal ! What do you mean ? ’ 

11 1 1 mean, I will cork your big bottle.’ 

“ 1 Is the fellow mad? ’ bawled the king, raising the point 
of his sword. 

‘ ‘ I will put a stopper, — ping, — what you call it, in your 
leaky lake, grand monarch,’ said the prince. 

11 The king was in such a rage, that before he could speak 
he had time to cool, and to reflect that it would be great waste 
to kill the only man who was willing to be useful in the pres- 
ent emergency, seeing that in the end the insolent fellow would 
be as dead as if he had died by his majesty’s own hand. 

“ 1 Oh ! ’ said he at last, putting up his sword with diffi- 
culty, — it was so long ; ‘I am obliged to you, you young 
fool ! Take a glass of wine ? ’ 

“ 1 No, thank you,’ replied the prince. 

“ ‘ Very well,’ said the king. 1 Would you like to run and 
see your parents before you make your experiment? ’ 

“ 1 No, thank you,’ said the prince. 

“ 1 Then we will go and look for the hole at once,’ said his 
majesty, and proceeded to call some attendants. 

“ ‘ Stop, please your majesty; I have a condition to make,’ 
interposed the prince. 


90 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“‘What!’ exclaimed the king; ‘a condition! and with 
me ! How dare you ? ’ 

u 4 As you please,’ said the prince, coolly. 4 I wish your 
majesty good-morning.’ 

44 4 You wretch ! I will have you put in a sack, and stuck 
in the hole.’ 

444 Very well, your majesty,’ replied the prince, becoming 
a little more respectful, lest the wrath of the king should de- 
prive him of the pleasure of dying for the princess. 4 But 
what good will that do your majesty ? Please to remember 
that the oracle says the victim must offer himself.’ 

44 4 Well, you have offered yourself,’ retorted the king. 

44 4 Yes, upon one condition.’ 

44 4 Condition again ! ’ roared the king, once more drawing 
his sword. £ Begone ! Somebody else will be glad enough to 
take the honor off your shoulders.’ 

44 4 Your majesty knows it will not be easy to get one to 
take my place.’ 

44 4 Well, what is your condition? ’ growled the king, feeling 
that the prince was right. 

44 4 Only this,’ replied the prince: 4 that, as I must on no 
account die before I am fairly drowned, and the waiting will 
bo rather wearisome, the princess, your daughter, shall go 1 
with me, feed me with her own hands, and look at me now and , 
then, to comfort me ; for you must confess it is rather hard. 

As soon as the water is up to my eyes, she may go and be 
happy, and forget her poor shoeblack.’ 

“ Here the prince's voice faltered, and he very nearly grew ; 
sentimental, in spite of his resolutions. 

44 1 Why didn’t you tell me before what your condition was? 
Such a fuss about nothing ! ’ exclaimed the king. 

4 4 4 Do you grant it? ’ persisted the prince. 

44 4 1 do,’ replied the king. 

44 4 Very well. I am ready.’ 

4 4 4 Go and have some dinner, then, whTe I set my people to 
find the place.’ 

44 The king ordered out his guards, and gave directions to 
the officers to find the hole in the lake at once. So the bed 
of the lake was marked out in divisions, and thoroughly exam- 
ined ; and in an hour or so the hole was discovered. It was 


ADELA CAT1ICART. 


91 


in the middle of a stone, near the centre of the lake, in the 
very pool where the golden plate had been found. It was a 
three-cornered hole, of no great size. There was water all 
round the stone, but none was flowing through the hole. 


“ Chapter XIV. — This is very kind o? you. 

11 The prince went to dress for the occasion, for he was 
resolved to die like a prince. 

“ When the princess heard that a man had offered to die for 
her, she was so transported that she jumped off* the bed, feeble 
as she was, and danced about the room for joy. She did not 
care who the man was ; that was nothing to her. The hole 
wanted stopping ; and if only a man would do, why, take one. 
In an hour or two more, everything was ready. Her maid 
dressed her in haste, and they carried her to the side of the 
lake. When she saw it, she shrieked, and covered her face 
with her hands. They bore her across to the stone, where 
they had already placed a little boat for her. The water was 
not deep enougli to float it, but they hoped it would be, before 
long. They laid her on cushions, placed in the boat -wines 
and fruits and other nice things, and stretched a canopy over 
all. 

“In a few minutes, the prince appeared. The princess 
recognized him at once ; but did not think it worth while to 
acknowledge him. 

“ ‘ Here I am,’ said the prince. 1 Put me in.’ 

“ ‘ They told me it was a shoeblack,’ said the princess. 

“ 1 So I am;’ said the prince. ‘ I blacked your little boots 
three times a day, because they were all I could get of you. 
Put me in.’ 

“ The courtiers did not resent his bluntness, except by say- 
ing to each other that he was taking it out in impudence. 

“But how was he to be put in? The golden plate con- 
tained no instructions on this point. The prince looked at the 
hole, and saw but one way. He put both his legs into it, 
sitting on the stone, and, stooping forward, covered the two 
corners that remained open, with his two hands. In this 


92 


ADELA CATHCART. 


uncomfortable position he resolved to abide his fate, and. turn- 
ing to the people, said : — 

“ ‘ Now you can go. 5 

“ The king had already gone home to dinner. 

“ ‘Now you can go, 5 repeated the princess after him, like a 
parrot. 

“The people obeyed her, and went. 

“ Presently a little wave flowed over the stone, and wetted 
one of the prince 5 s knees. But he did not mind it much. He 
began to sing, and the song he sang was this : — 

“ ‘As a world that has no well, 

Darkly bright in forest-dell ; 

As a world without the gleam 
Of the downward-going stream ; 

As a world without the glance 
Of the ocean’s fair expanse ; 

As a world where never rain 
Glittered on the sunny plain, — 

Such, my heart, thy world would be, 

If no love did flow in thee. 

“ ‘ As a world without the sound 
Of the rivulets under ground ; 

Or the bubbling of the spring 
Out of darkness wandering; 

Or the mighty rush and flowing 
Of the river’s downward going ; 

Or the music-showers that drop 
On the outspread beech’s top ; 

Or the ocean’s mighty voice, 

When his lifted waves rejoice, — 

Such, my soul, thy world would be, 

If no love did sing in thee. 

“ ‘ Lady, keep thy world’s delight; 

Keep the waters in thy sight. 

Love hath made me strong to go, 

For thy sake, to realms below, 

Where the water’s shine and hum 
Through the darkness never come : 

Let, I pray, one thought of me 
Spring, a little well, in thee ; 

Lest thy loveless soul be found 
Like a cry and thirsty ground.’ 


“ ‘ Sing again, prince. It makes it less tedious, 5 said the 
princess. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


93 


But the prince was too much overcome to sing any more. 
And a long pause followed. 

“ 1 This is very kind of you, prince,’ said the princess at 
last, quite coolly, as she lay in the boat with her eyes shut. 

“ 1 I am sorry I can’t return the compliment,’ thought the 
prince ; 1 but you are worth dying for, after all.’ 

“ Again a wavelet, and another, and another, flowed over 
the stone, and wetted both the prince’s knees thoroughly ; but 
he did not speak or move. Two — three — four hours passed 
in this way, the princess apparently fast asleep, and the prince 
very patient. But he was much disappointed in his position, 
for he had none of the consolation he had hoped for. 

“ At last he could bear it no longer. 

“ ‘ Princess ! ’ said he. 

“ But at the moment, up started the princess, crying : — 

“ ‘ I’m afloat ! I’m afloat ! ’ 

“ And the little boat bumped against the stone. 

“ ‘ Princess ! ’ repeated the prince, encouraged by seeing 
her wide awake, and looking eagerly at the water. 

“ 1 Well ? ’ said she, without once looking round. 

“ 1 Your papa promised that you should look at me ; and 
you haven’t looked at me once.’ 

“ ‘ Did he ? Then I suppose I must. But I am so 
sleepy ! ’ 

“ 1 Sleep, then, darling, and don’t mind me,’ said the poor 
prince. 

“ 1 Really, you are very good,’ replied the princess. ‘ I 
think I will go to sleep again.’ 

“ 1 Just give me a glass of wine and a biscuit, first,’ said the 
prince very humbly. 

“ ‘With all my heart,’ said the princess, and gaped as she 
said it. 

She got the wine and the biscuit, however, and coming 
nearer with them : — 

“ ‘ Why, prince,’ she said, ‘ you don’t look well ! Are you 
sure you don’t mind it? ’ 

“‘Not a bit,’ answered he, feeling very faint indeed. 
‘ Only, I shall die before it is of any use to you, unless I have 
something to eat.’ 

“ ‘ There, then ! ’ said she, holding out the wine to him. 


94 


ADELA CATIICAIiT. 


“ ‘Ah! you must feed me. I dare not move my hands. 
The water would run away directly.’ 

11 1 Good gracious ! ’ said the princess, and she began at once 
to feed him with bits of biscuit, and sips of wine. 

“ As she fed him, he contrived to kiss the tips of her fingers 
now and then. She did not seem to mind it, one way or the 
other. But the prince felt better. 

u 1 Now, for your own sake, princess/ said he, ‘I cannot let 
you go to sleep. You must sit and look at me, else I shall 
not be able to keep up.’ 

“ c Well, I will do anything I can to oblige you,’ answered 
she, with condescension, and, sitting down, she did look at him, 
and kept looking at him, with wonderful steadiness, considering 
all things. 

“The sun went down, and the moon came up, and gush 
after gush the waters w T ere flowing over the rock. They w r ere 
up to the prince’s waist now. 

“ 1 Why can’t we go and have a swim? ’ said the princess. 
‘ There seems to be water enough just about here.’ 

“ ‘ I shall never swim more,’ said the prince. 

“ ‘ Oh ! I forgot,’ said the princess, and was silent. 

u So the water grew and grew, and rose up and up on the 
prince. And the princess sat and looked at him. She fed 
him now and then. The night wore on. The waters rose and 
rose. The moon rose likewise, higher and higher, and shone 
full on the face of the dying prince. The water was up to his 
neck. 

“ ‘ Will you kiss me, princess? ’ said he feebly, at last, for 
the fun was all out of him now. 

“ ‘Yes, I will,’ answered the princess, and kissed him with 
a long, sweet, cold kiss. 

“ ‘ Now,’ said he, with a sigh of content, ‘ I die happy.’ 

“ He did not speak again. The princess gave him some wine 
for the last time: he was past eating. Then she sat down 
again, and looked at him. The water rose and rose. It 
touched his chin. It touched his lower lip. It touched 
between his lips. He shut them hard to keep it out. The 
princess began to feel strange. It touched his upper lip. He 
breathed through his nostrils. The princess looked wild. It 
covered his nostrils. Her eyes looked scared, and shone strange 


ADELA CATHCART. 


95 


in the moonlight. His head fell back ; the water closed over 
it; and the bubbles of his last breath bubbled up through the 
water. The princess gave a shriek, and sprang into the lake. 

u She laid hold first of one leg, then of the other, and 
pulled and tugged, but she could not move either. She stopped 
to take breath, and that made her think that he could not get 
any breath. She was frantic. She got hold of him, and held 
his head above the water, which was possible, now his hands 
were no longer on the hole. But it was of no use, for he was 
past breathing. 

“ Love and water brought back all her strength. She got 
under the water, and pulled and pulled with her whole might, 
till, at last, she got one leg out. The other easily followed. 
How she got him into the boat she never could tell ; but when 
she did, she fainted away. Coming to herself, she seized the 
oars, kept herself steady as best she could, and rowed and 
rowed, though she had never rowed before. Round rocks, and 
over shallows, and through mud she rowed, till she got to the 
landing stairs of the palace. By this time her people were on 
the shore, for they had heard her shriek. She made them 
carry the prince to her own room, and lay him in her bed, and 
light a fire, and send for the doctors. 

“ £ But the lake, your Highness/ said the chamberlain, who, 
roused by the noise, came in, in his night-cap. 

11 ‘ Go and drown yourself in it/ said she. 

“ This was the last rudeness of which the princess was ever 
guilty, and one must allow that she had good cause to feel 
provoked with the lord chamberlain. 

“Had it been the king himself, he would have fared no 
better. But both he and the queen were fast asleep. And the 
chamberlain went back to his bed. So the princess and her old 
nurse were left with the prince. Somehow, the doctors never 
came. But the old nurse was a wise woman, and knew what 
to do. 

“They tried everything for a long time without success. 
The princess was nearly distracted between hope and fear, but 
she tried on and on, one thing after another, and everything 
over and over again. 

“ At last, when they had all but given it up, just as the 
sun rose, the prince opened his eyes. 


96 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ Chapter XV. — Look at the rain ! 

“ The princess burst into a passion of tears, and fell on the 
floor. There she lay for an hour, and her tears never ceased. 
All the pent-up crying of her life was spent now. And a rain 
came on, such as had never been seen in that country. The 
sun shone all the time, and the great drops, which fell straight 
to the earth, shone likewise. The palace was in the heart of a 
rainbow. It was a rain of rubies, and sapphires, and emeralds, 
and topazes. The torrents poured from the mountains like 
molten gold, and if it had not been for its subterraneous outlet, 
the lake would have overflowed and inundated the country. It 
was full from shore to shore. 

“ But the princess did not heed the lake. She lay on the 
floor and wept. And this rain within doors was far more won- 
derful than the rain out of doors. For when it abated a little, 
and she proceeded to rise, she found, to her astonishment, that 
she could not. At length, after many efforts, she succeeded 
in getting upon her feet. But she tumbled down again di- 
rectly. Hearing her fall, her old nurse uttered a yell of 
delight, and ran to her, screaming : — 

“ ‘ My darling child ! She’s found her gravity ! ’ 

u 1 Oh ! that's it, is it? 7 said the princess, rubbing her 
shoulder and her knee alternately. £ 1 consider it very un- 
pleasant. I feel as if I should be crushed to pieces. ’ 

11 1 Hurrah ! ’ cried the prince, from the bed. 1 If you’re 
all right, princess, so am I. How’s the lake ? ’ 

11 ‘ Brimful,’ answered the nurse. 

“ ‘ Then we’re all jolly.’ 

“ 1 That we are, indeed !’ answered the princess, sobbing. 

“ And there was rejoicing all over the country that rainy 
day Even the babies forgot their past troubles, and danced 
and crowed amazingly. And the king told stories, and the 
queen listened to them. And he divided the money in his 
box, and she the honey in her pot, to all the children. And 
there was such jubilation as was never heard of before. 

“ Of course the prince and princess were betrothed at once. 
But the princess had to learn to walk, before they could be 
married with any propriety. And this was not so easy, at her 


ADELA CATHCART. 


07 


time of life, for she could walk no more than a baby. She 
was always falling down and hurting herself. 

“ ‘ Is this the gravity you used to make so much of? ’ said 
she, one day to the prince. £ For my part, I was a great deal 
more comfortable without it.’ 

“ ‘ No, no ; that’s not it. This is it,’ replied the prince, as 
he took her up, and carried her about like a baby, kissing her 
all the time. ‘ This is gravity.’ 

ii '■ That’s better,’ said she. 1 1 don’t mind that so much.’ 

“ And she smiled the sweetest, loveliest smile in the prince’s 
face. And she gave him one little kiss, in return for all his, 
and he thought them overpaid, for he was beside himself with 
delight. I fear she complained of her gravity more than once 
after this, notwithstanding. 

“It was a long time before she got reconciled to walking. 
But the pain of learning it was quite counterbalanced by two 
things, either of which would have been sufficient consolation. 
The first was, that the prince himself was her teacher ; and 
the second, that she could tumble into the lake as often as she 
pleased. Still, she preferred to have the prince jump in with 
her, and the splash they made before was nothing to the 
splash they made now'. 

“ The lake never sank again. In process of time it wore 
the roof of the cavern quite through, and was twice as deep as 
before. 

“ The only revenge the princess took upon her aunt was to 
tread pretty hard on her gouty toe the next time she saw her. 
But she was sorry for it the very next day, when she heard 
that the water had undermined her house, and that it had fallen 
in the night, burying her in its ruins ; whence no one ever 
ventured to dig up her body. There she lies to this day. 

“ So the prince and princess lived and were happy; and had 
crowns of gold, clothes of cloth, and shoes of leather, and chil- 
dren of boys and girls, not one of whom was ever known, on the 
most critical occasion, to lose the smallest atom of his or her due 
proportion of gravity.” 

“ Bravo ! ” 

“ Capital ! ” 

u Very good indeed ! ” 


98 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ Quite a success ! ” — cried raj complimentary friends. 

“I don’t think the princess could have rowed, though, — 
without gravity, you know,” said the school-master. 

“ But she did,” said Adela. “ I won’t have my uncle found 
fault with. It is a very funny, and a very pretty story.” 

“ What is the moral of it?” drawled Mrs. Cathcart, with 
the first syllable of moral very long and very gentle. 

“ That you need not be afraid of ill-natured aunts, though 
they are witches,” said Adela. 

“ No, my dear; that’s not it,” I said. “It is, that you 
need not mind forgetting your poor relations. No harm will 
come of it in the end.” 

“I think the moral is,” said the doctor, “ that no girl is 
worth anything till she has cried a little.” 

Adela gave him a quick glance, and then cast her eyes 
down. Whether he had looked at her I don’t know. But I 
should think not. Neither the clergyman nor his wife had 
made any remark. I turned to them. 

“ I am afraid you do not approve of my poor story,” I said. 

“ On the contrary,” replied Mr. Armstrong, “ I think there 
is a great deal of meaning in it, to those who can see through 
its fairy-gates. What do you think of it, my dear? ” 

“ I was so pleased with the earnest parts of it, that the fun 
jarred upon me a little, I confess,” said Mrs. Armstrong. 
“ But I dare say that was silly.” 

“ I think it was, my dear. But you can afford to be silly 
sometimes, in a good cause.” 

“You might have given us the wedding,” said Mrs. 
Bloomfield. 

“ I am an old bachelor, you see. I fear I don’t give wed- 
dings their due,” I answered. “ I don’t care for them, — in 
stories, I mean.” 

“ When will you dine with us again ? ” asked the colonel. 

“ When you please,” answered the curate. 

“ To-morrow, then ? ” 

“ Bather too soon that, is it not ? Who is to read the next 
story ? ” 

“ Why, you, of course,” answered his brother. 

“ I am at your service,” rejoined Mr. Armstrong. “But 
to-morrow ! ” 


ADELA cathcart. 


99 


“Don’t you think, Ralph.” said his wife, 11 you could read 
better if you followed your usual custom of dining early? ” 

“ I am sure I should, Lizzie. Don’t you think, Colonel 
Cathcart, it would be better to come in the evening, just after 
your dinner ? I like to dine early, and I am a great tea- 
drinker. If we might have a huge teakettle on the fire, and 
teapot to correspond on the table, and I, as I read my story, 
and the rest of the company, as they listen, might help our- 
selves, I think it would be very jolly, and very homely.” 

To this the colonel readily agreed. I heard the ladies 
whispering a little, and the words, “Very considerate in- 
deed ! ” from Mrs. Bloomfield, reached my ears. Indeed, I had 
thought that the colonel’s hospitality was making him forget 
his servants. And I could not help laughing to think what 
Beeves’ face would have been like, if he had heard us all in- 
vited to dinner again, the next day. 

Whether Adela suspected us now, I do not know. She said 
nothing to show it. 

Just before the doctor left, with his brother and sister, he 
went up to her, and said, in a by-the-by sort of way : — 

“I am sorry to hear that you have not been quite well of 
late, Miss Cathcart. You have been catching cold, I am 
afraid. Let me feel your pulse.” 

She gave him her wrist directly, saying : — 

“ I feel much better to-night, thank you.” 

He stood — listening to the pulse, you would have said, — his 
whole attitude was so entirely that of one listening, with his 
eyes doing nothing at all. lie stood thus for a while, without 
consulting his watch, looking as if the pulse had brought him 
into immediate communication with the troubled heart itself, 
and he could feel every flutter and effort which it made. Then 
he took out his watch and counted. 

Now that his eyes were quite safe, I saw Adela’s eyes steal 
up to his face, and rest there for half a minute with a reposeful 
expression. I felt that there was something healing in the 
very presence and touch of the man, — so full was he of health 
and humanity ; and I thought Adela felt that he was a good 
man, and one to be trusted in. 

He gave her back her hand, as it were, so gently did he let 
it go, and said : — 


TOO 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ I will send you something, as soon as I got home, to take 
at once. I presume you will go to bed soon ? ” 

“ I will, if you think it best.” 

And so Mr. Henry Armstrong was, without more ado, tac- i 
ltly installed as physician to Miss Adela Cathcart; and she 
Beemed quite content with the new arrangement. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE BELL. 

Before the next meeting took place, namely, after break- 
fast on the following morning, Percy having gone to visit the 
dogs, Mrs. Cathcart addressed me : — 

“ I had something to say to my brother, Mr. Smith, 
but — ” 

“ And you wish to be alone with him ? With all my heart,” 

I said. 

“ Not at all, Mr. Smith,” she answered, with one of her 
smiles, which w T ere quite incomprehensible to me, until I hit 
upon the theory that she kept a stock of them for general use, 1 
as stingy old ladies keep up their half-worn ribbons to make 
presents of to servant-maids : “ 1 only wanted to know, before 
I made a remark to the colonel, whether Dr. Armstrong: — ” 

“Mr. Armstrong lays no claim to the rank of a physi- 
cian.” 

“ So much the better for my argument. But is he a friend 
of yours, Mr. Smith ? ” 

“Yes, — of nearly a week’s standing.” 

“ Oh, then, I am in no danger of hurting your feelings.” 

“ I don’t know that,” thought I. but I did not say it. 

“Well, Colonel Cathcart, — excuse the liberty I am 
taking, — but surely you do not mean to dismiss Dr. Wade, 
and give a young man like that the charge of your daughter’s 
health at such a crisis.” 

“Dr. Wade is dismissed already, Jane. He did her no 
more good than any old woman might have done.” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


101 


“ But such a young man ! ” 

“Not so very young,” I ventured to say. “ He is thirty 

at least.” 

But the colonel was angry with her interference ; for, an 
impetuous man always, he had become irritable of late. 

“Jane,” he said, “is a man less likely to be delicate 
because he is young ? Or does a man always become more 
refined as he grows older? For my part,” — and here his 
opposition to his unpleasant sister-in-law possibly made him 
say more than he would otherwise have conceded, — “I have 
never seen a young man whose manners and behavior I liked 
better.” 

“Much good that will do her! It will only hasten the 
mischief. You men are so slow to take a hint, brother; and 
it is really too hard to be forced to explain one’s self always. 
Don’t you see that, whether he cures her or not, he will make 
her fall in love with him? And you won’t relish that, I 
fancy.” 

“ You won’t relish it, at all events. But mayn’t he fall in 
love with her as well?” thought I; which thought, a cer- 
tain expression in the colonel’s face kept me from uttering. I 
saw at once that his sister’s words had set a discord in the 
good man’s music. He made no reply; and Mrs. Cathcart 
saw that her arrow had gone to the feather. I saw what she 
tried to conceal, — the flash of success on her face. But she 
presently extinguished it, and rose and left the room. I 
thought with myself that such an arrangement would be the 
very best thing for Adela; and that, if the blessedness of 
woman lies in any way in the possession of true manhood, she, 
let her position in society be what it might compared with his, 
and let her have all the earls in the kingdom for uncles, would 
be a fortunate woman indeed, to marry such a man as Harry 
Armstrong ; — for so much was I attracted to the man, that I 
already called him Harry, when I and myself talked about 
him. But I was concerned to see my old friend so much dis- 
turbed. I hoped, however, that his good, generous heart 
would right its own jarring chords before long, and that he 
would not spoil a chance of Adela’s recovery, however slight, 
by any hasty measures founded on nothing better than paternal 
jealousy. I thought, indeed, he had gone too far to make 


102 


ADELA CATHCART. 


that possible for some time ; but I did not knew how far hia 
internal discomfort might act upon his behavior as host, and 
bo interfere with the homeliness of our story-club, upon which 
I depended not a little for a portion of the desired result. 

The motive of Mrs. Cathcart’s opposition was evident. She 
was a partisan of Percy ; for Adela was a very tolerable for- 
tune, as people say. 

These thoughts went through my mind, as thoughts do, in 
no time at all ; and when the lady had closed the door behind 
her with protracted gentleness, I was ready to show my game ; 
in which I really considered my friend and myself partners. 

“Those women,” I said (women forgive me! ), with a 
laugh, which I trust the colonel did not discover to be a forced 
one, — “ those women are always thinking about falling in 
love and that sort of foolery. I wonder she isn’t jealous of 
me now ! Well, I do love Adela better than any man will, 
for some weeks to come. I’ve been a sweetheart of hers ever 
since she was in long clothes.” Here I tried to laugh again, 
and, to judge from the colonel, I verily believe I succeeded. 
The cloud lightened on his face, as I made light of its cause, 
till at last he laughed too. If I thought it all nonsense, why 
should he think it earnest ? So I turned the conversation to 
the club, about which I was more concerned than about the 
love-making at present, seeing the latter had positively no 
existence as yet. 

“ Adela seemed quite to enjoy the reading last night,” I 
said. 

“ I thought she looked very grave,” he answered. 

The good man had been watching her face all the time, I 
saw, and evidently paying no heed to the story. I doubted if 
he was the better judge for this, — observing only ab extra , 
and without being in sympathy with her feelings as moved by 
the tale. 

“Now that is just what I should have wished to see,” I 
answered. “We don’t want her merry all at once. What 
we want is, that she should take an interest in something. A 
grave face is a sign of interest. It is all the world better than 
a listless face.” 

“ But what good can stories do in sickness ? ” 

“ That depends on the origin of the sickness. My convio 


ADELA CATIICART. 


103 


tion is, that, near or far off, in ourselves, or in our ancestors, 
• — say Adam and Eve, for comprehension’s sake, — all our 
ailments have a moral cause. I think that if we were all 
good, disease would, in the course of generations, disappear 
utterly from the face of the earth.” 

“ That’s just like one of your notions, old friend ! Rather 
peculiar. Mystical, is it not? ” 

“ But I meant to go on to say that, in Adela’s case, I 
believe, from conversation I have had with her, that the opera- 
tion of mind on body is far more immediate than that I have 
hinted at.” 

“ You cannot mean to imply,” said my friend, in some 
alarm, ‘‘that Adela has anything upon her conscience?” 

“ Certainly not. But there may be moral diseases that do 
not in the least imply personal wrong or fault. They may 
themselves be transmitted, for instance. Or even if such 
sprung wholly from present physical causes, any help given to 
the mind would react on those causes. Still more would the 
physical ill be influenced through the mental, if the mind be 
the source of both. 

“ Now, from whatever cause. Adela is in a kind of moral atro- 
phy, for she cannot digest the food provided for her, so as to get 
any good of it. Suppose a patient, in a corresponding physi- 
cal condition, should show a relish for anything proposed to 
him, would you not take it for a sign that that was just the 
thing to do him good ? And we may accept the interest Adela 
shows in any kind of mental pabulum provided for her, as an 
analogous sign. It corresponds to relish, and is a ground for 
expecting some benefit to follow, — in a word, some nourish- 
ment of the spiritual life. Relish may be called the digestion 
of the palate ; interest, the digestion of the inner ears ; both 
significant of further digestion to follow. The food thus rel- 
ished may not be the best food ; and yet it may be the best for 
the patient, because she feels no repugnance to it, and can 
digest and assimilate, as well as swallow it. For my part, I 
believe in no cramming, bodily or mental. I think nothing 
learned without interest can be of the slightest after benefit; 
and although the effort may comprise a moral good it involves 
considerable intellectual injury. All I have said applies with 


104 


ADELA CATHCART. 


still greater force to religious teaching, though that is not defi- 
nitely the question now.” 

“ Well, Smith, I can’t talk philosophy like you; but what 
you say sounds to me like sense. At all events, if Adela 
enjoys it, that is enough for me. Will the young doctor tell 
stories too? ” 

“ I don’t know. I fancy he could. But to-night we have 
his brother.” 

“ I shall make them welcome, anyhow.” 

This was all I wanted of him ; and now I was impatient for 
the evening, and the clergyman’s tale. The more I saw of 
him the better I liked him, and felt the more interest in him. 
I went to church that same day, and heard him read prayers, 
and liked him better still ; so that I was quite hungry for the 
story he was going to read to us. 

The evening came, and with it the company. Arrange- 
ments, similar to those of the evening before, having been 
made, with some little improvements, the colonel now occupy- 
ing the middle place in the half-circle, and the doctor seated, 
whether by chance or design, at the corner farthest from the 
invalid’s couch, the clergyman said, as he rolled and unrolled 
the manuscript in his hand : — 

u To explain how I came to a story, the scene of which is 
in Scotland, I may be allowed to inform the company that I 
spent a good part of my boyhood in a town in Aberdeenshire, 
with my grandfather, who was a thorough Scotchman. He had 
removed thither from the south, where the name is indigenous, 
being indeed a descendant of that Christy, whom his father, 
Johnny Armstrang, hanging with the rope about his neck, ready 
to be hanged, — or murdered, as the ballad calls it, — apostro- 
phizes in these words : — 

“ ‘ And God be with thee, Christy, my son, 

Where thou sits on thy nurse’s knee, 

But an’ thou live this hundred year, 

Thy father’s better thou’lt never be.’ 

“ But I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen all, for this 
has positively nothing to do with the story. Only please to 
remember that in those days it was quite respectable to be 
hanged.” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


105 


We all agreed to this with a profusion of corroboration, 
except the colonel, who, I thought, winced a little. But 
presently our attention was occupied with the story, thus 
announced : — 

“ The Bell. A Sketch in Pen and Ink. 

He read in a great, deep, musical voice, with a wealth of 
pathos in it, — always suppressed, yet almost too much for me 
in the more touching portions of the story. 

“ One interruption more,” he said, before he began. “ 1 
fear you will find it a sad story.” 

And he looked at Adela. 

I believe that he had chosen the story on the homoeopathic 
principle. 

“ I like sad stories,” she answered, and he went on at once. 
“THE BELL. 

“ A Sketch in Pen and Ink. 

“ Elsie Scott had let her work fall on her knees, and her hands 
on her work, and was looking out of the wide, low window of her 
room, which was on one of the ground floors of the village street. 
Through a gap in the household shrubbery of fuchsias and myrtles 
filling the window-sill, one passing on the foot- pavement might get 
a momentary glimpse of her pale face, lighted up with two blue 
eyes, over which some inward trouble had spread a faint, 
gauze-like haziness. But almost before her thoughts had had 
time to w T ander back to this trouble, a shout of children’s 
voices, at the other end of the street, reached her ear. She 
listened a moment. A shadow of displeasure and pain crossed 
her countenance, and, rising hastily, she betook herself to an 
inner apartment, and closed the door behind her. 

“Meantime the sounds drew nearer, and by and by, an old 
man, whose strange appearance and dress showed that he had 
little capacity either for good or evil, passed the window. His 
clothes were comfortable enough in quality and condition, for 
they were the annual gift of a benevolent lady in the neigh- 
borhood, but, being made to accommodate his taste, both known 
and traditional, they were somewhat peculiar in cut and adorn- 
ment. Both coat and trousers were of a dark gray cloth, but 


106 


ADELA CATIICART. 


the former, which, in its shape, partook of the military, had a 
straight collar of yellow, and narrow cuffs of the same, while 
upon both sleeves, about the place where a corporal wears his ! 
stripes was expressed, in the same yellow cloth, a somewhat 
singular device. It was as close an imitation of a bell, with 
its tongue hanging out of its mouth, as the tailor’s skill could 
produce from a single piece of cloth. The origin of the mili- 
tary cut of his coat was well known. Ilis preference for it 
arose in the time of the wars of the first Napoleon, when the 
threatened invasion of the country caused the organization of 
many volunteer regiments. The martial show and exercises ; 
captivated the poor man’s fancy, and from that time forward ! 
nothing pleased his vanity, and consequently conciliated his 
good will more, than to style him by his favorite title, — the j 
Colonel. But the badge on his arm had a deeper origin, which 
will be partially manifest in the course of the story, — if story 
it can be called. It was, indeed, the baptism of the fool, the 
outward and visible sign of his relation to the infinite and 
unseen. His countenance, however, although the features 
were not of any peculiarly low or animal type, showed no 
corresponding sign of the consciousness of such a relation, 
being as vacant as human countenance could well be. 

“ The cause of Elsie’s annoyance was that the fool was 
annoyed, for he was followed by a troop of boys who turned 
his rank into scorn, and assailed him with epithets hateful to 
him. Although the most harmless of creatures when let 
alone, he was dangerous when roused; and now he stooped 
repeatedly to pick up stones and hurl them at his tormentors, 
who took care, while abusing him, to keep at a considerable 
distance, lest he should get hold of them. Amidst the sounds 
of derision that followed him, might be heard the words 
frequently repeated : 1 Come hame ! come hame ! ’ But in a 
few minutes the noise ceased, either from the interference of 
some friendly inhabitant, or that the boys grew weary, and 
departed in search of other amusement. By and by, Elsie 
might be seen again at her work in the window ; but the cloud 
over her eyes was deeper, and her whole face more sad. 

“ Indeed, so much did the persecution of the poor man affect 
her, Tiat an onlooker would have been compelled to seek th« 
cause in some yet deeper sympathy than that commonly felt 


ADELA CATHCART. 


107 


for the oppressed, even by women. And such a sympathy 
existed, strange as it may seem, between the beautiful girl (for 
many called her a bonnie lassie) and this 1 tatter of humanity.’ 
Nothing would have been farther from the thoughts of those 
that knew them, than the supposition of any correspondence or 
connection between them, yet this sympathy sprung in part 
from a real similarity in their history and present condition, 

“ All the facts that were known about Feel Jock's origin 
were these : that, seventy years ago, a man who had gone with 
his horse and cart some miles from the village, to fetch home 
a load of peat from a desolate moss , had heard, while toiling 
along as rough a road on as lonely a hill-side as any in Scot- 
land, the cry of a child ; and, searching about, had found the 
infant, hardly wrapt in rags, and untended, as if the earth her- 
self had just given him birth, — that desert moor, wide and 
dismal, broken and watery, the only bosom for him to lie upon, 
and the cold, clear night-heaven his only covering. The man 
had brought him home, and the parish had taken parish-care 
of him. He had grown up, and proved what he now was, — 
almost an idiot. Many of the townspeople were kind to him, 
and employed him in fetching water for them from the river 
and wells in the neighborhood, paying him for his trouble in 
victuals, or whiskey, of which he was very fond. He seldom 
spoke ; and the sentences he could utter were few ; yet the 
tone, and even the words of his limited vocabulary, were suffi- 
cient to express gratitude and some measure of love toward 
those who were kind to him, and hatred of those who teased 
and insulted him. He lived a life without aim, and appar- 
ently to no purpose ; in this resembling most of his more 
gifted fellow-men, who, with all the tools and materials need- 
ful for the building of a noble mansion, are yet content with a 
clay hut. 

“ Elsie, on the. contrary, had been born in a comfortable 
farm-house, amidst homeliness and abundance. But at a very 
early age she had lost both father and mother ; not so early, 
however, but that she had faint memories of warm soft times 
on her mother’s bosom, and of refuge in her mother’s arms 
from the attacks of geese and the pursuit of pigs. Therefore, 
in after-times, when she looked forward to heaven, it was as 
much a reverting to the old heavenly times of childhood and 


108 


ADELA CATIICART. 


mother’s love, as an anticipation of something yet to be re« 
vealed. Indeed, without some such memory, how should we 
ever picture to ourselves a perfect rest ? But sometimes it 
would seem as if the more a heart was made capable of loving, 
the less it had to love ; and poor Elsie, in passing from a 
mother’s to a brother’s guardianship, felt a change of spiritual 
temperature, too keen. He was not a bad man, or incapable 
of benevolence when touched by the sight of want in anything 
of which he would himself have felt the privation; but he was 
so coarsely made, that only the purest animal necessities af- 
fected him ; and a hard word, or unfeeling speech, could never 
have reached the quick of his nature through the hide that 
enclosed it. Elsie, on the contrary, was excessively and pain- 
fully sensitive, as if her nature constantly portended an invisi- 
ble multitude of half-spiritual, half-nervou3 antennae, which 
shrunk and trembled in every current of air at all below their 
own temperature. The effect of this upon her behavior was 
such that she was called odd ; and the poor girl felt that she 
was not like other people, yet could not help it. Iier brother, 
too, laughed at her without the slighest idea of the pain he 
occasioned, or the remotest feeling of curiosity as to what the 
inward and consistent causes of the outward abnormal condi- 
tion might be. Tenderness was the divine comforting she 
needed ; and it was altogether absent from her brother’s char- 
acter and behavior. 

“ Her neighbors looked on her with some interest, but they 
rather shunned than courted her acquaintance ; especially after 
the return of certain nervous attacks, to which she had been 
subject in childhood, and which were again brought on by the 
events I must relate. It is curious how certain diseases repel, 
by a kind of awe, the sympathies of the neighbors ; as if, by 
the fact of being subject to them, the patient were removed 
into another realm of existence, from which, like the dead with 
the living, she can hold communion with those around her only 
partially, and with a mixture of dread pervading the inter- 
course. Thus some of the deepest, purest wells of spiritual 
life are, like those in old castles, choked up by the decay of 
the outer walls. But what tended more than anything, per- 
haps, to keep up the painful unrest of her soul (for the beauty 
of her character was evident in the fact that the irritation sel- 


ADELA CATIICART. 


109 


dom reached her mind), was a circumstance at which, in its 
present connection, some of my readers will smile, and others 
feel a shudder corresponding in kind to that of Elsie. 

Her brother was very fond of a rather small, but ferocious- 
looking, bull-dog, which followed close at his heels, wherever 
he went, with hanging head and slouching gait, never leaping 
or racing about like other dogs. When in the house, he always 
lay under his master’s chair. lie seemed to dislike Elsie, and 
she felt an unspeakable repugnance to him. Though she never 
mentioned her aversion, her brother easily saw it by the way 
■which she avoided the animal • and, attributing it entirely to 
fear, — which indeed had a great share in the matter, — he 
would cruelly aggravate it. by telling her stories of the fierce 
hardihood and relentless persistency of this kind of animal. 
He dared not yet further increase her terror by offering to set 
the creature upon her, because it was doubtful whether he 
might be able to restrain him ; but the mental suffering which 
he occasioned by this heartless conduct, and for which he had 
no sympathy, was as severe as many bodily sufferings to which 
he would have been sorry to subject her. Whenever the poor 
girl happened inadvertently to pass near the dog, which was 
seldom, a low growl made her aware of his proximity, and drove 
her to a quick retreat. He was, in fact, the animal impersona- 
tion of the animal opposition which she had continually to 
endure. Like chooses like ; and the bull-dog in her brother 
made choice of the bull-dog out of him for his companion. 
So her day was one of shrinking fear and multiform discom- 
fort. 

u But a nature capable of so much distress must of necessity 
be capable of a corresponding amount of pleasure, and in her 
case this was manifest in the fact that sleep and the quiet of 
her own room restored her wonderfully. If she was only let 
alone, a calm mood, filled with images of pleasure, soon took 
possession of her mind. 

“Her acquaintance with the fool had commenced some ten 
years previous to the time I write of, when she was quite a 
little girl, and had come from the country with her brother, 
who, having taken a small farm close to the town, preferred 
residing in the town to occupying the farm-house, which was 
not comfortable. She looked at first with some terror on hia 


110 


ADELA CATHCART. 


uncouth appearance, and with much wonderment on his strango 
dress. This wonder was heightened by a conversation sho 
overheard one day in the street, between the fool and a little 
pale-faced boy, who, approaching him respectfully, said, 4 Weel, 
cornel ! ’ — ‘ Weel, laddie 1 ’ was the reply. 4 Fat dis the wow say, 
cornel V — 4 Come hame ! come hame ! ’ answered the colonel , ;■ 
with both accent and quantity heaped on the word hame. She 
heard no more, and knew not what the little she had heard 1 
meant. What the wow could be she had no idea, only, as the 
years passed on, the strange word became in her mind inde- 
scribably associated with the strange shape in yellow cloth on 
his sleeves. Had she been a native of the town, she could not 
have failed to know its import, so familiar was every one with 
it, although the word did not belong to the local vocabulary ; 
but, as it was, years passed away before she discovered its 
meaning, xlnd when, again and again, the fool, attempting 
to convey his gratitude for some kindness she had shown him, 
mumbled over the words, 4 The wow o' Bivven , the wow o' l 
Bivven ,’ the wonder would return as to what could be the 
idea associated with them in his mind ; but she made no advance 
towards their explanation. 

44 That, however, which most attracted her to the old man 
was his persecution by the children. They were to him what 
the bull-dog was to her, — the constant source of irritation 
and annoyance. They could hardly hurt him, nor did he 
appear to dread other injury from them than insult, to which, 
fool though he was, he was keenly alive. Human gad-Les 
that they w r ere, they sometimes stung him beyond endurance, 
and he would curse them in the impotence of his anger. Once 
or twice Elsie had been so far carried beyond her constitutional 
timidity, by sympathy for the distress of her friend, that she 
had gone out and talked to the boys, — even scolded them, so 
that they slunk away ashamed, and began to stand as much in 
dread of her as of the clutches of their prey. So she, gentle 
and timid to excess, acquired among them the reputation of a 
termagant. Popular opinion among children, as among men, 
is often just, but as often very unjust; for the same manifesta- 
tions may proceed from opposite principles, and, therefore, as 
indices to character, may mislead as often as enlighten. 

44 Next door to the house in which Elsie resided, dwelt a 


ADELA CATHCART. 


Ill 


tradesman and his wife, who kept an indefinite sort of shop, in 
which various kinds of goods were exposed to sale. Their 
youngest son was about the same age as Elsie, and while they 
were rather more than children, and less 'than young people, 
he spent many of his evenings with her, somewhat to the loss 
of position in his classes at the parish school. They were, 
indeed, much attached to each other, and, peculiarly constituted 
as Elsie was, one may imagine what kind of heavenly messenger 
a companion stronger than herself must have been to her. In 
fact, if she could have framed the undefinable need of her 
childlike nature into an articulate prayer, it would have been, 
‘ Give me some one to love me stronger than I.’ Any love 
was helpful, yes, in its degree, saving to her poor troubled soul ; 
but the hope, as they grew older together, that the powerful 
yet tender- hearted youth really loved her, and would one day 
make her his wife, was like the opening of heavenly eyes of 
life and love in the hitherto blank and death-like face of her 
existence. But nothing had been said of love, although they 
met and parted like lovers. 

‘‘Doubtless if the circles of their thought and feeling had 
continued as now to intersect each other, there would have been 
no interruption to their affection ; but the time at length arrived 
when the old couple, seeing the rest of their family comfortably 
settled in life, resolved to make a gentleman of the youngest, 
and so sent him from school to college. The facilities existing 
in Scotland for providing a professional training enabled them 
to educate him as a surgeon. He parted from Elsie with some 
regret, but, far less dependent on her than she was on him, and 
full of the prospects of the future, he felt none of that sinking 
at the heart which seemed to lay her whole nature open to a 
fresh inroad of all the terrors and sorrows of her peculiar 
existence. No correspondence took place between them. New 
pursuits and relations, and the development of his tastes and 
judgments, entirely altered the position of poor Elsie in his 
memory. Having been, during their intercourse, far less of a 
man than she of a woman, he had no definite idea of the place 
he had occupied in her regard, and in his mind she receded into 
the background of the past, without his having any idea that 
she would suffer thereby, or that he was unjust towards her, 
while, in her thoughts, his image stood in the highest and 


112 


ADELA CATIICAP.T. 


clearest relief. It was the centre-point from which and towards 
which all lines radiated and converged, and, although she could 
not but be doubtful about the future, yet there was much hope 
mingled with her doubts. 

“ But when, at the close of two years, he visited his native 
village, and she saw before her, instead of the homely youth 
who had left her that winter evening, one who, to her inex- 
perienced eyes, appeared a finished gentleman, her heart sank 
within her, as if she had found Nature herself false in her 
ripening processes, destroying the beautiful promise of a for- 
mer year by changing instead of developing her creations, \ 
He spoke kindly to her, but not cordially. To her ear the voice i 
seemed to come from a great distance out of the past ; and 1 
while she looked upon him, that optical change passed over 
her vision, which all have experienced after gazing abstractedly ! 
on any object for a time : bis form grew very small, and 
receded to an immeasurable distance ; till, her imagination 
mingling with the twilight haze of her senses, she seemed to 
see him standing fir off on a hill, with the bright horizon of 
sunset for a background to his clearly defined figure. 

“ She knew no more till she found herself in bed in the 
dark ; and the first message that reached her from the outer 
world was the infernal growl of the bull-dog from the room 
below. Next day she saw her lover walking with two ladies, 
who would have thought it some degree of condescension to 
speak to her ; and he passed the house without once looking 
towards it. 

u One who is sufficiently possessed by the demon of ner- 
vousness to be glad of the magnetic influences of a friend’s 
company in a public promenade, or of a horse beneath him in 
passing through a church-yard, will have some faint idea of 
how utterly exposed and defenceless poor Elsie now felt on the 
crowded thoroughfare of life. And the insensibility which 
had overtaken her was not the ordinary swoon with which 
Nature relieves the overstrained nerves, but the return of the 
epileptic fits of her early childhood ; and if the condition of 
the poor girl had been pitiable before, it was tenfold more so 
now. Yet she did not complain, but bore all in silence, though 
it was evident that her health was giving way. But now 
help came to her from a strange quarter 5 though many might 


ADELA CATHCART. 


113 


not be willing to accord the name of help to that which rather 
hastened than retarded the progress of her decline. 

“ She had gone to spend a few of the summer days with a 
relative in the country, some miles from her home, if home it 
could be called. One evening, towards sunset, she went out 
for a solitary walk. Passing from the little garden gate, she 
went along a bare country road for some distance, and then, 
turning aside by a footpath through a thicket of low trees, she 
came out in a lonely little church-yard on the hill-side. Hardly 
knowing whether or not she had intended to go there, she 
seated herself on a mound covered with long grass, — one of 
many. Before her stood the ruins of an old church which 
was taking centuries to crumble. Little remained but the 
gable-wall, immensely thick, and covered with ancient ivy. 
The rays of the setting sun fell on a mound at its foot, not 
green like the rest, but of a rich, red-brown in the rosy sun- 
set, and evidently but newly heaped up. Her eyes, too, 
rested upon it. Slowly the sun sank below the near horizon. 

“As the last brilliant point disappeared, the ivy darkened, 
and a wind arose and shook all its leaves, making them look 
cold and troubled ; and to Elsie’s ear came a low, faint sound, 
as from a far-off bell. But close beside her — and she started 
and shivered at the sound — rose a deep, monotonous, almost 
sepulchral voice : 1 Come hame ! come liame ! The wow ! the 
woio ! ’ 

“At once she understood the whole. She sat in the churchy 
yard of the ancient parish church of Ruthven ; and when she 
lifted up her eyes, there she saw, in the half-ruined belfry, the 
old bell, all but hidden with ivy, which the passing wind had 
roused to utter one sleepy tone ; and there, beside her, stood 
the fool with the bell on his arm ; and to him and to her the 
ioow o’ Rivven said, £ Come hame ! come hame l ’ Ah, what 
did she want in the whole universe of God but a home ? And 
though the ground beneath was hard, and the sky overhead 
far and boundless, and the hill-side lonely and companionless, 
yet somewhere within the visible, and beyond these the outer 
surfaces of creation, there might be a home for her ; as round 
the wintry house the snows lie heaped up cold and white and 
dreary all the Ion g forenight, while within, beyond the closed 
ohutters, and giving no glimmer through the thick stone walls, 


114 


ADELA CATHCART. 


the fires are blazing joyously, and the voices and laughter of 
young unfrozen children are heard, and nothing belongs to 
winter but the gray hairs on the heads of the parents, within 
whose warm hearts childlike voices are heard, and childlike 
thoughts move to and fro. The kernel of winter itself is 
spring, or a sleeping summer. 

“ It was no wonder that the fool, cast out of the earth on a 
far more desolate spot than this, should seek to return within 
her bosom at this place of open doors, and should call it home. 
For surely the surface of the earth had no home for him. 
The mound at the foot of the gable contained the body of one 
who had shown him kindness. He had followed the funeral 
that afternoon from the town, and had remained behind with 
the bell. Indeed, it was his custom, though Elsie had not 
known it, to follow every funeral going to this, his favorite 
church-yard of Ruthven ; and, possibly in imitation of its 
booming, for it was still tolled at the funerals, he had given 
the old bell the name of the wow , and had translated its 
monotonous clangor into the articulate sounds, come hame , 
come hame. What precise meaning he attached to the words, 
it is impossible to say ; but it was evident that the place pos- 
sessed a strange attraction for him, drawing him towards it by 
the cords of some spiritual magnetism. It is possible that in 
the mind of the idiot there may have been some feeling about 
this church-yard and bell, which, in the mind of another, 
would have become a grand poetic thought, — a feeling as if the 
ghostly old bell hung at the church-door of the invisible world, 
and ever and anon rung out joyous notes (though they sounded 
sad in the ears of the living), calling to the children of 
the unseen to come home , come home. She sat for some 
time in silence, — for the bell did not ring again, and the fool 
spoke no more, — till the dews began to fall, when she rose and 
went home, followed by her companion, who passed the night 
in the barn. 

“From that hour Elsie was furnished with a visual mage 
of the rest she sought, — an image which, mingling with deeper 
and holier thoughts, became, like the bow set in the cloud, the 
earthly pledge and sign of the fulfilment of heavenly hopes. 
Often when the wintry fog of cold discomfort and homelessness 
filled her soul, all at once the picture of the little church-yard 


ADELA CATHCART. 


115 


- with the old gable and belfry, and the slanting sunlight 
steeping down to the very roots the long grass on the graves 

— arose m the darkened chamber (camera obscura) of her 
soul ; ani again she heard the faint iEolian sound of the bell, 
and the v;j;e of the prophet-fool who interpreted the oracle; 
and the irward weariness was soothed by the promise of a long 
sleep. Who can tell how many have been counted fools simply 
because they were prophets ; or how much of the madness in 
the world may be the utterance of thoughts true and just, but 
belonging to a region differing from ours in its nature and 
scenery ? 

“ But to Elsie, looking out of her window, came the mocking 
tones of the idle boys who had chosen as the vehicle of their 
scorn the very words which showed the relation of the fool to 
the eternal, and revealed in him an element higher far than 
any yet developed in them. They turned his glory into shame, 
like the enemies of David when they mocked the wnuld-be 
king. And the best in a man is often that which is most con- 
demned by those who have not attained to his goodness. The 
words, however, even as repeated by the boys, had not solely 
awakened indignation at the persecution of the old man ; they 
had likewise comforted her with the thought of the refuge that 
awaited loth him and her. 

“ But die same evening a worse trial befell her. Again she 
sat near the window, oppressed by the consciousness that her 
brother had come in. He had gone upstairs, and his dog had 
remained at the door, exchanging surly compliments with some 
of his own kind, when the fool came strolling past, and, I do 
not know from what cause, the dog flew at him. Elsie heard 
his cry and looked up. Her fear of the brute vanished in a 
moment before her sympathy for her friend. She darted from 
the house and rushed towards the dog to drag him off the de- 
fenceless idiot, calling him by his name in a tone of anger and 
dislike. He left the fool, and, springing at Elsie, seized her 
by the arm above the elbow with such a gripe that, in the midst 
of her agony, she fancied she heard the bone crack. But she 
uttered no cry, for the most apprehensive are sometimes the 
most courageous. Just then, however, her former lover was 
coming along the street, and, catching a glimpse of what had 
happened, was on the spot in an instant, took the dog by the 


116 


ADELA CATHCART. 


throat with a gripe not inferior to his own, and having thus 
compelled him to give up his hold, dashed him on the ground 
with a force that almost stunned him, and then with a super- 
added kick sent him away limping and howling ; whereupon 
the fool, attacking him furiously with a stick, would certainly 
have finished him, had not his master descried his plight and 
come to hi3 rescue. 

“ Meantime the young surgeon had carried Elsie into the 
house ; for, as soon as she was rescued from the dog, she had 
fallen down in one of her fits, which were becoming more and 
more frequent of themselves, and little needed such a shock as 
this to increase their violence. He was dressing her arm when 
she began to recover ; and when she opened her eyes, in a state 
of half-consciousness, the first object she beheld was his face 
bending over her. Recalling nothing; of what had occurred, it 
seemed to her, in the dreamy condition in which the fit had left 
her, the same face, unchanged, which had once shone in upon 
her tardy spring-time, and promised to ripen it into summer. 
She forgot that it had departed and left her in the wintry cold. 
And so she uttered wild words of love and trust ; and the youth, 
while stung with remorse at his own neglect, was astonished 
to perceive the poetic forms of beauty in which the soul of the 
uneducated maiden burst into flower. But as her senses re- 
covered themselves, the face gradually changed to her, as if 
the slow alteration of two years had been phantasmagorically 
compressed into a few moments ; and the glow departed from 
the maiden's thoughts and words, and her soul found itself at 
the narrow window of the present, from which she could be- 
hold but a dreary country. From the street came the iambic 
cry of the fool, 1 Come hamo ! come hame ! ’ 

“ Tycho Brahe, I think, is said to have kept a fool, who 
frequently sat at his feet in bis study, and to whose mutter- 
ings he used to listen in the pauses of his own thought. The 
shining soul of the astronomer drew forth the rainbow of harmony 
from the misty spray of words ascending ever from the dark 
gulf into which the thoughts of the idiot were ever falling. He 
beheld curious concurrences of words therein, and could read 
strange meanings from them. — sometimes even received won- 
drous hints for the direction of celestial inquiry, from what to 
any other, and it may be to the fool himself, was but a cease- 


ADELA CATIICART. 


117 


less and aimless babble. Such power lieth in words. It is 
not then to be wondered at, that the sounds I have mentioned 
should fall on the ears of Elsie, at such a moment, as a mes- 
sage from God himself. This, then, — all this dreariness. * — 
was but a passing show like the rest, and there lay somewhere 
for her a reality, — a home. The tears burst up from her op- 
pressed heart. She received the message and prepared to go 
home. From that time her strength gradually sank, but her 
spirits as steadily rose. 

u The strength of the fool, too, began to fail, for he was old. 
He bore all the signs of age, esren to the gray hairs, which 
betokened no wisdom. But one cannot say what wisdom might 
be in him, or how far he had not fought his own battle, and been 
victorious. Whether any notion of a continuance of life and 
thought dwelt in his brain, it is impossible to tell ; but he 
seemed to have the idea that this was not his home ; and those 
who saw him gradually approaching his end might well anti- 
cipate for him a higher life in the world to come. He had 
passed through this world without ever awakening to such a 
consciousness of being as is common to mankind. He had 
spent his years like a weary dream through a long night, — a 
strange, dismal, unkindly dream, — andnow the morning was at 
hand. Often in his dream had he listened with sleepy senses 
to the ringing of the bell, but that bell would awake him at 
last. He was like a seed buried too deep in the soil, to which 
the light has never penetrated, and which, therefore, has never 
forced its way upwards to the open air, never experienced the 
resurrection of the dead. But seeds will grow ages after they 
have fallen into the earth ; and, indeed, with many kinds, and 
within some limits, the older the seed before it germinates, 
the more plentiful is the fruit. And may it not be believed 
of many human beings, that, the great Husbandman having 
sown them like seeds sown in the soil of human affairs, there 
they lie buried a life long ; and, only after the upturning of 
the soil by death, reach a position in which the awakening of 
their aspiration and the consequent growth become possible. 
Surely he has made nothing in vain. 

“ A violent cold and cough brought him at last near to his 
end, and, hearing that he was ill, Elsie ventured one bright 
spring day tc go to see him. When she entered the misera« 


118 


ADELA CATIICART. 


ble room where he lay, he held out his hand to her with some- 
thing like a smile, and muttered feebly and painfully, 4 I’m 
gaein’ to the wow, nae to come back again. ’ Elsie could not 
restrain her tears ; while the old man, looking fixedly at her, 
though with meaningless eyes, muttered, for the last time, 
4 Come Jiamel come liameC and sank into a lethargy, from 
which nothing could rouse him, till, next morning, he was 
waked by friendly death from the long sleep of this world’s 
night. They bore him to his favorite church-yard, and buried 
him within the site of the old church, below his loved bell, 
which had ever been to him as the cuckoo-note of a coming 
spring. Thus he at length obeyed its summons, and went 
home. 

44 Elsie lingered till the first summer days lay warm on the 
land. Several kind hearts in the village, hearing of her illness, 
visited her and ministered to her. Wondering at her sweet- 
ness and patience, they regretted they had not known her 
before. How much consolation might not their kindness have 
imparted, and how much might not their sympathy have 
strengthened her on her painful road ! But they could not 
long have delayed her going home. Nor, mentally constituted 
as she was, would this have been at all to be desired. Indeed, 
it was chiefly the expectation of departure that quieted and 
soothed her tremulous nature. It is true, that a deep spring 
of hope and faith kept singing on in her heart ; but this alone, 
without the anticipation of speedy release, could only have 
kept her mind at peace. It could not have reached, at least 
for a long time, the border land between body and mind, in 
which her disease lay. 

44 One still night of summer, the nurse who watched by her 
bedside heard her murmur through her sleep, 4 1 hear it : come 
hame! come liamel I’m cornin’, I’m cornin’, — I’m gaein’ 
hame to the wow, nae to come back.’ She awoke at the sound 
of her own words, and begged the nurse to convey to her 
brother her last request, that she might be buried by the side 
of the fool, within the old church of Ruthven. Then she 
turned her face to the wall, and in the morning was found 
quiet and cold. She must have died within a few minutes 
after her last words. She was buried according to her request, 
and thus she, too, went home. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


119 


“ Side bj side rest the aged fool and the young maiden, for 
the bell called them, and they obeyed ; and surely they found 
the fire burning bright, and heard friendly voices, and felt 
sweet lips on theirs, in the home to which they went. Surely 
both intellect and love were waiting them there. 

“Still the old bell hangs in the old gable; and whenever 
another is borne to the old church-yard, it keeps calling to those 
who are left behind, with the same sad, but friendly and un- 
changing voice : 1 Comehame! come hamel come hamel ’ ” 


For a full minute, there was silence in the little company. 
I myself dared not look up ; but the movement of indistinct 
and cloudy white over my undirected eyes let me know that 
two or three, amongst them Adela, were lifting their hand- 
kerchiefs to their faces. At length a voice broke the silence. 

“ IIow much of your affecting tale is true, Mr. Armstrong? ” 

The voice belonged to Mrs. Cathcart. 

“ I object to the question,” said I. “ I don’t want to know. 
Suppose, Mrs. Cathcart, I were to put this story-club, members, 
stories, and all, into a book, how would any one like to have 
her real existence questioned ? It would at least imply that I 
had made a very bad portrait of that one.” 

The lady cast rather a frightened look at me, which I confess 
I was not sorry to see. But the curate interposed. 

“ What frightful sophistry, Mr. Smith ! ” Then turning to 
Mrs. Cathcart, he continued : — 

“ I have not the slightest objection to answer your question, 
Mrs. Cathcart, and if our friend Mr. Smith does not want to 
hear the answer I will wait till he stops his ears.” 

He glanced to me, his black eyes twinkling with fun. I 
saw that it was all he could do to keep from winking, but he 
did. 

“ Oh, no,” I answered, “I will share what is going.” 

“ Well, then, the fool is a real character, in every point. 
But I learned, after I had written the sketch, that I had made 
one mistake. He was in reality about seventeen when he was 
found on the hill. The bell is a real character too. Elsie is 
a creature of my own. So, of course, are the brother and the 
dog.” 


120 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“ I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry that there was 
no Elsie,” said his wife. “ But did you know the fool your- 
self? ” 

“ Perfectly well, and had a great respect for him. When a 
little boy, I was quite proud of the way he behaved to me. 
He occasionally visited the general persecution of the boys 
upon any boy he chanced to meet on the road, but, as often as 
1 met him, he walked quietly past me, muttering, 1 Auntie’s 
folk 1 ’ or returning my greeting of A fine day , colonel 1 ’ with 
a grunted ‘ Ay I 1 ” 

“ What did he mean by 1 Auntie’s folk’?” asked Mrs. 
Armstrong. 

“ My grandmother was kind to him, and he always called 
her Auntie. I cannot tell how the fancy originated, but cer- 
tainly he knew all her descendants somehow, — a degree of 
intelligence not to have been expected of him, — and invariably 
murmured ‘ Auntie’s folk,’ as often as he passed any of them 
on the road, as if to remind himself that these were friends, or 
relations. Possibly he had lived with an aunt before he was 
exposed on the moor.” 

“ Is ivow a word at all ? ” I asked. 

“If you look into Jamieson’s Dictionary,” said Armstrong, 
“as I have done for the express purpose, you will find that 
the v r ord is used differently in different quarters of the country, 
— chiefly, however, as a verb. It means to bark, to howl ; 
likewise to wave or beckon ; also to woo , or make love to. 
Any of these might be given as an explanation of his word. 
But I do not think it had anything to do with these meanings, 
nor was the word used, in that district, in either of the last 
two senses, in my time at least. It was used, however, in the 
meaning of alas , — a form of woe in fact, as wow’s me 1 But 
I believe it was, in the fool's use, an attempt to reproduce the 
sound which the bell made. If you repeat the word several 
times, resting on the final w , and pausing between each repeti- 
tion, — wow ! wow 1 ivow ! — you will find that the sound is 
not at all unlike the tolling of a funeral bell, and therefore the 
word is most probably an onomatopoetic invention of the fool’s 
own.” 

Adela offered no remark upon the story, and I knew from 
her countenance that she was too much affected to be inclined 


ADELA CATIICART. 


121 


to speak. Her eyes had that fixed, forward look, which, com- 
bined with haziness, indicates deep emotion, while the curves 
of her mouth were nearly straightened out by the compression 
of her lips. I had thought, while the reader went on, that 
she could hardly fail to find in the story of Elsie some corre- 
spondence to her own condition and necessities ; I now believed 
that she had found that correspondence. More talk was not 
desirable ; and I was glad when, after a few attempts at ordi- 
nary conversation, Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield rose to take their 
leave, which was accepted by the whole company as a signal 
for departure. 

“ But stay,” I interposed ; “ who is to read or tell next? ” 

“Why, I will be revenged on Harry,” said the clergyman. 

“That you can’t,” said the doctor; “fori have nothing 
to give you.” 

“ You don’t mean to say you are going to jib? ” 

“ No. I don’t say I won’t read. In fact I have a story in 
my head, and a bit of it on paper ; but I positively can’t read 
next time.” 

“ Will you oblige us with a story, colonel ? ” said I. 

“ My dear fellow, you know I never put pen to paper in my 
life, except when I could not help it. I may tell you a story 
before it is all over, but write one I cannot.” 

“ A tale that is told is the best tale of all,” I said. “ Shall 
we book you for next time ? ” 

“No, no! not next time; positively not. My story must 
come of itself, else I cannot tell it at all.” 

“ Well, there's nobody left but you, Mr. Bloomfield. So 
you can t get rid of it.” 

“ I don’t think I ever wrote what was worth calling a story; 
b^t I don't mind reading you something of the sort which 
I have at home, on one condition.” 

“What is that? ” 

“ That nobody ask any questions about it.” 

“Oh! certainly.” 

“ But my only reason is, that somehow I feel it would all 
come to pieces if you did. It is nothing as a story ; but there 
are feelings expressed in it, which were very strong in me 
when I wiote it, and which I do not feel willing to talk about, 
although I have no objection to having them thought about.” 


122 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ Well, that is settled. When shall we meet again? ” 

“ To-morrow or the day after,’’ said the colonel; “which 
you please.” 

“ Oh ! the day after, if I may have a word in it,” said the 
doctor. “I shall be very busy to-morrow; and we mustn’t 
crowd remedies either, you know.” 

The close of the sentence was addressed to me only. The 
rest of the company had taken leave, and were already at the 
door, when he made the last remark. He now came up to his 
patient, felt her pulse, and put the question : — 

“ How have you slept the last two nights ? ” 

“Better, thank you.” 

“ And do you feel refreshed when you wake? ” 

“ More so than for some time.” 

“ I won’t give you anything to-night. Good-night.” 
“Good-night. Thank you.” 

This was all that passed between them. Jealousy, with the 
six eyes of Colonel, Mrs., and Percy Cathcart, was intent 
upon the pair during the brief conversation. And I thought 
Adela perceived the fact. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE SCHOOL-MASTER’S STORY. 

I was walking up the street the next day, when, finding I 
was passing the grammar-school, and knowing there was noth- 
ing going on there now, I thought I should not be intruding if 
I dropped in upon the school-master and his wife, and had a lit- 
tle chat with them. I already counted them friends ; for I 
felt that, however different our training and lives might have 
been, we all meant the same thing now, and that is the true 
bond of fellowship. I found Mr. Bloomfield reading to his 
wife, — a novel, too. Evidently he intended to make the most 
of this individual holiday, by making it as unlike a work-day 
as possible. 

“ I see you are enjoying yourself,” I said. “ It’s a shame 
to break in upon you.” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


123 


u We are delighted to see you. Your interruption will 
only postpone a good thing to a better/’ said the kind-hearted 
school- master, laying down his book. “ Will you take a 
pipe? ” 

“ With pleasure, — but not here, surely ? ” 

“ Oh ! we smoke everywhere in holiday time.” 

“ You enjoy your holiday, I can see.” 

“ I should think so. I don’t believe one of the boys 
delights in a holiday quite as heartily as I do. You must not 
imagine I do not enjoy my work, though.” 

‘•Not in the least. Earnest work breeds earnest play. 
But you must find the labor wearisome at times.” 

“I confess I have felt it such. I have said to myself 
sometimes : “ Am I to go on forever teaching boys Latin 
grammar, till I w 7 ish there had never been a Latin nation to 
leave such an incubus upon the bosom of after ages ? ” Then 
I would remind myself, that, under cover of grammar and 
geography, and all the other farce- meat (as the word ought to 
be written and pronounced), I put something better into my 
pupils ; something that I loved myself, and cared to give to 
them. But I often ask myself to what it all goes. I learn 
to love my boys. I kill in them all the bad I can. I nour- 
ish in them all the good I can. I send them across the bor- 
ders of manhood, — and they leave me, and most likely I 
hear nothing more of them. And I say to myself : ‘ My life 
is like a wind. It blows and will cease.’ But something says 
in reply : ‘ Wouldst thou not be one of God’s winds, content 
to blow, and scatter the rain and dew, and shake the plants 
into fresh life, and then pass away and know nothing of what 
thou hast done ? ’ And I answer : ‘Yes, Lord.’ ” 

“ You are not a wind; you are a poet, Mr. Bloomfield,” I 
said, with emotion. 

“ One of the speechless ones, then,” he returned, with a 
smile that showed plainly enough that the speechless longed 
for utterance. It was such a smile as would, upon the face 
of a child, wile anything out of you. Surely God, who needs 
no wiles to make him give what one is ready to receive, will 
let him sing some day, to his heart's content ! And me, too, 
0 Lord, I pray. 

“ What a pleasure it must be to you now, to have such a 


124 


ADELA CATIICART. 


man as Mr. Armstrong for your curate ! He will be a brother 
to you,” I said, as soon as I could speak. 

“Mr. Smith, I cannot tell you what he is to me already. 
He is doing what I would fain have done, — what was denied 
to me.” 

{{ How do you mean? ” 

“ I studied for the church. But I aimed too high. My 
heart burned within me, but my powers were small. I wanted 
to relight the ancient lamp, but my rush-light would not 
kindle it. My friends saw no light ; thej r only smelt burning. 
I was heterodox. I hesitated, I feared, I yielded, I with- 
drew. To this day, I do not know whether I did right or 
wrong. But I am honored yet in being allowed to teach, 
and, if at the last I have the faintest ‘ Well done ’ from the 
Master, ‘I shall be satisfied.” 

Mrs. Bloomfield was gently weeping; partly from regret, 
as I judged, that her husband was not in the position she 
would have given him, partly from delight in his manly good- 
ness. A watery film stood in the school -master’s eyes, and 
his wise, gentle face was irradiated with the light of a far-off 
morning, whose dawn was visible to his hope. 

“ The world is the better for you at least, Mr. Bloomfield,” 
I said. “ I wish some more of us were as sure as you of 
helping on the daily Creation, which is quite as certain a fact 
as that of old; and is even more important to us than that 
recorded in the book of Genesis. It is not great battles alone 
that build up the world’s history, nor great poems alone that 
make the generations grow. There is a still, small rain from 
heaven that has more to do with the blessedness of nature and 
of human nature than the mightiest earthquake or the love- 
liest rainbow.” 

“I do comfort myself,” he answered, “at this Christmas- 
time and for the whole year, with the thought that, after all, 
the world was saved by a child. But that brings me to think 
of a little trouble I am in, Mr. Smith. The only paper I 
have, at all fit for reading to-morrow night, is much too short 
to occupy the evening. What is to be done? ” 

“ Oh ! we can talk about it.” 

“ That is just what I could not bear. It is rather an odd 


ADELA CATHCART. 


125 


composition, I fear ; but, whether it be worth anything or not, 
I cannot help having a great affection for it.” 

“ Then it is true, I presume ? ” 

“There again ! That is just one of the questions I don’t 
want to answer. I quite sympathized with you last night in 
not wishing to know how much of Mr. Armstrong’s story was 
true. Even if wholly fictitious, a good story is always true. 
But there are things which one would have no right to invent, 
which would be worth nothing if they were invented, from the 
very circumstance of their origin in the brain, and not in 
the world. The very beauty of them demands that they 
should be fact ; or, if not, that they should not be told, — 
sent out poor unclothed spirits into the world before a body of 
fact has been prepared for them. But I have always found it 
impossible to define the kind of stories I mean. The nearest 
I can come to it is this : If the force of the lesson depends on 
the story being a fact, it must not be told except it is a fact. 
Then, again, there are true things that one would be shy of 
telling, if he thought they would be attributed to himself. 
Now this story of mine is made up of fiction and fact both. 
And I fear that if I were called upon to take it to pieces, it 
would lose the force of any little truth it possesses, besides 
exposing me to what I would gladly avoid. Indeed, I fear I 
ought not to read it at all.” 

“ You are amongst friends, you know, Mr. Bloomfield.” 

“ Entirely ? ” he asked, with a half-comic expression. 

“Well,” I answered, laughing, “ any exception that may 
exist is hardly worth considering, and, indeed, ought to be 
thankfully accepted, as tending to wholesomeness. Neither 
vinegar nor mustard would be desirable as food, you know ; 
yet — ” 

“ I understand you. I am ashamed of having made such a 
fuss about nothing. I will do my best, I assure you.” 

I fear that the fastidiousness of the good man will not be 
excuse enough for the introduction of such a long preamble to 
a story for which only a few will in the least care. But the 
said preamble happening to touch on some interesting subjects, 
I thought it well to record it. As to the story itself, there 
are some remarks of Balzac in the introduction to one of his, 
that would well apply to the school-master’s. They are to the 


126 


ADELA OATHCART. 


effect that some stories, which have nothing in them as stories, 
yet fill one with an interest both gentle and profound, if thej 
are read in the mood that is exactly fitted for their just recep- 
tion. 

Mr. Bloomfield conducted me to the door. 

“ I hope you will not think me a grumbler,” he said, i: I 
should not like your disapprobation, Mr. Smith.” 

u You do me great honor,” I said, honestly. (C Believe me, 
there is no danger of that. I understand and sympathize 'with 
you entirely.” 

11 My love of approbation is large,” he said, tapping the 
bump referred to with his forefinger. “ Excuse it and me too.” 

“ There is no need, my dear friend,” I said,“ if I may call 
you such.” 

His answer was a warm squeeze of the hand, with which 
we parted. 

As I returned home, I met Henry Armstrong, mounted on 
a bay mare of a far different sort from what a sportsman would 
consider a doctor justified in using for his purposes. In fact, 
she was a thorough hunter; no beauty certainly, w r ith her 
ewe-neck, drooping tail, and white face and stocking ; but she 
had an eye at once gentle and wild as that of a savage angel, 
if my reader will condescend to dream for a moment of such 
an anomaly; while her hind quarters were power itself, and 
her foreleg was flung right out from the shoulder wflth a ges- 
ture not of work but of delight ; the step itself being entire- 
ly one of work, — long in proportion to its height. The lines 
of her fore and hind quarters converged so much that there 
was hardly more than room for the saddle between them. I 
had never seen such action. Altogether, although not much 
of a hunting man, the motion of the creature gave me such a 
sense of power and joy that I longed to be scouring the fields 
with her under me. It -was a sunshiny day, with a keen, cold 
air, and a thin sprinkling of snow; and Harry looked so ra- 
diant with health, that one could easily believe he had health 
to convey, if not to bestow. He stopped and inquired after 
his patient. 

“ Could you not get her to go. out with you. Mr. Smith?” 
he said. 

“ Would that be safe, Mr. Henry? ” 


AD EL A CATHCART. 


127 


11 Perfectly safe, if she is willing to go ; not otherwise. 
Get her to go willingly for ten minutes, and see if she is not 
the better for it. What I want is to make the blood go quick- 
er and more plentifully through her brain. She has not fever 
enough. She does not live hist enough.” 

“ 1 will try,” I said. “ Have you been far to-day? ” 

“ Just come out. You might tell that by the mare. You 
should see her three hours after this.” 

And he patted her neck as if he loved her, — as I am sure 
he did, — and trotted gently away. 

When I came up to the gate, Beeves was standing at it. 

“ A nice gentleman that, sir ! ” said he. 

“ He is, Beeves. I quite agree with you.” 

“ And rides a good mare, sir ; and rides as well as any man 
in the county. I never see him leave home in a hurry. Al- 
ways goes gently out, and comes gently in. What has gone 
between, you may see by her skin when she comes home.” 

“ Does he hunt, Beeves ? ” 

“ I believe not, sir ; except the fox crosses him in one of his 
rounds. Then, if he is heading anywhere in his direction, 
they say doctor and mare go at it like mad. He’s got two more 
in his stable, better horses to look at ; but that’s the one to go.” 

“ I wonder how he affords such animals.” 

“ They say he has a way of buying them lame, and a won- 
derful knack of se tting them up again. They all go, anyhow.” 

“ Will you say to your mistress that I should like very 
much if she would come to me here ? ” 

Beeves stared, but said “ Yes, sir,” and went in. I was 
now standing in front of the house, doubtful of the reception 
Adela would give my message, but judging that curiosity 
would aid my desire. I was right. Beeves came back with 
the message that his mistress would join me in a few minute3. 
In a quarter of an hour she came, wrapt in furs. She was 
very pale, but her eye was brighter than usual, and it did not 
shrink from the cold glitter of the snow. She put her arm in 
mine, and w r e walked for ten minutes along the dry gravel 
walks, chatting cheerfully, about anything and nothing. 

“ Now you must go in,” I said. 

“Not yet, surely, uncle. By-the-by, do you think it was 
right of me to come out? ” 


128 


AD EL A CATHCART. 


“ Mr. Henry Armstrong said you might.” 

She did not reply, but I thought a light rose-color tinged 
her cheek. 

“ But he said you must not be out more than ten minutes.” 

“ Well, I suppose I must do as I am told.” 

And she turned at once, and went up the stair to the door 
almost as lightly as any other girl of her age. 

There was some progress, plainly enough. But was that a 
rose-tinge I had seen on her cheek, or not? 

The next evening after tea we arranged ourselves much a? 
on the last occasion ; and Mr. Bloomfield, taking a neat manu- 
script from his pocket, and evidently restraining himself from 
apology and explanation, although as evidently nervous about 
the whole proceeding, and jealous of his own presumption, 
began to read as follows : — 

His voice trembled as he read, and his wife’s face was a 
shade or two paler than usual. 

“BIRTH, DREAMING, AND DEATH. 

“ In a little room, scantily furnished, lighted, not from the 
window, for it was dark without, and the shutters were closed, 
but from the peaked flame of a small, clear-burning lamp, sat 
a young man, with his back to the lamp and his face to the 
fire. No book or paper on the table indicated labor just for- 
saken ; nor could one tell from his eyes, in which the light 
had all retreated inwards, whether his consciousness was ab- 
sorbed in thought, or reverie only. The window-curtains, 
which scarcely concealed the shutters, were of coarse texture, 
but of brilliant scarlet, — for he loved bright colors ; and the 
faint reflection they threw on his pale, thin face made it look 
more delicate than it would have seemed in pure daylight. Two 
or three book-shelves, suspended by cords from a nail in the wall, 
contained a collection of books, poverty-stricken as to numbers, 
with but few to fill up the chronological gap between the Greek 
New Testament and stray volumes of the poets of the present 
century. But his love for the souls of his individual books 
was the stronger that there was no possibility of its degener- 
ating into avarice for the bodies or outsides whose aggregate 
constitutes the piece of house-furniture called a library. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


129 


“ Some years before, the young man (my story is so short, 
and calls in so few personages, that I need not give him a name) 
had aspired, under the influence of religious and sympathetic 
feeling, to be a clergyman ; but Providence, either in the form 
of poverty, or of theological difficulty, had prevented his pros- 
ecuting his studies to that end. And now he was only a vil- 
lage school-master, nor likely to advance further. I have said 
only a village school-master ; but is it not better to be a teacher 
of babes than a preacher to men, at any time ; not to speak of 
those troublous times of transition, wherein a difference of 
degree must so often assume the appearance of a difference of 
kind? That man is more happy — I will not say more 
blessed — who, loving boys and girls, is loved and revered by 
them, than he who, ministering unto men and women, is com- 
pelled to pour his words into the filter of religious suspicion, 
whence the water is allowed to pass away unheeded, and only 
the residuum is retained for the analysis of ignorant party- 
spirit. 

“ He had married a simple village girl, in whose eyes he was 
nobler than the noblest, — to whom he was the mirror, in which 
the real forms of all things around were reflected. Who dares 
pity my poor village school-master ? I fling his pity away. 
Had he not found in her love the verdict of God, that he was 
worth loving ? Did he not in her possess the eternal and the 
unchangeable ? Were not her eyes openings through which he 
looked into the great depths that could not be measured or 
represented ? She was his public, his society, his critic. He 
found in her the heaven of his rest. God gave unto him im- 
mortality. and he was glad. For his ambition, it had died of 
its own mortality. He read the words of Jesus, and the words 
of great prophets whom he has sent ; and learned that the 
wind-tossed anemone is a word of God as real and true as the 
unbending oak beneath which it grows ; that reality is an 
absolute existence precluding degrees. If his mind was,, as his 
room, scantily furnished, it was yet lofty ; if his light was 
small, it was brilliant. God lived, and he lived. Perhaps the 
highest moral height which a man can reach, and at the same 
time the most difficult of attainment, is the willingness to be 
nothing relatively, so that he attain that positive excellence 
which the original conditions of his being render not merely 


130 


ADELA CATIICAUT. 


possible, but imperative. It is nothing to a man to be greater 
or less than another ; to be esteemed or otherwise by the pub- 
lic or private world in which he moves. Does he, or does he 
not, behold and love and live the unchangeable, the essential, 
the divine? This he can only do according as God has made 
him. He can behold and understand God in the least degree, 
as well as in the greatest, only by the godlike within him ; and 
he that loves thus the good and great has no room, no thought, 
no necessity, for comparison and difference. The truth satis- 
fies him. He lives in his absoluteness. God makes the glow- 
worm, as well as the star ; the light in both is divine. If mine 
be an earth-star to gladden the wayside, I must cultivate hum- 
bly and rejoicingly its green earth-glow, and not seek to blanch 
^ to the whiteness of the stars that lie in the fields of blue. 
For to deny God in my own being is to cease to behold him in 
any. God and man can meet only by the man ? s becoming that 
which God meant him to be. Then he enters into the house 
of life, which is greater than the house of fame. It is better 
to be a child in a green field than a knight of many orders in 
a state ceremonial. 

“ All night long he had sat there, and morning was draw- 
ing nigh. ITe has not heard the busy wind all night, heaping 
up" snow against the house, which will make him start at the 
ghostly face of the world when at length he opens the shutters, 
and it stares upon him so white. For up in a little room 
above, white-curtained, like the great earth without, there has 
been a storm, too, half the night, — moanings and prayers — 
and some forbidden tears; but now, at length, it is over; and 
through the portals of two mouths instead of one flows 
and ebbs the tide of the great air-sea which feeds the life of 
man. With the sorrow of the mother, the new life is pur- 
chased for the child ; our very being is redeemed from noth- 
ingness with the pains of a death of which we know nothing. 

“ An hour has gone by since the watcher below has been 
delivered from the fear and doubt that held him. He has 
seen the mother and the child, — the first she has given to life 
and him, — and has returned to his lonely room, quiet and glad. 

t: But not long did he sit thus before thoughts of doubt 
awoke in his mind. lie remembered his scanty income, 
and the somewhat feeble health of his wife. One or two small 


ADELA CATHCART. 


131 


debts he had contracted seemed absolutely to press on his 
bosom ; and the new-born child — ‘ oh ! how doubly welcome,’ 
he thought, £ if I were but half as rich again as I am ! ’ — • 
brought with it, as its own love, so its own care. The dogs 
of need, that so often hunt us up to heaven, seemed hard upon 
his heels ; and he prayed to God with fervor ; and as he prayed 
he fell asleep in his chair, and as he slept he dreamed. The 
fire and the lamp burned on as before, but threw no rays into 
his soul ; yet now, for the first time, he seemed to become aware 
of the storm without ; for his dream was as follows : — 

“ He lay in his bed, and listened to the howling of the wintry 
wind. He trembled at the thought of the pitiless cold, and 
turned to sleep again, when he thought he heard a feeble 
knocking at the door. He rose in haste, and went down with 
a light. As he opened the door, the wind, entering with a 
gust of frosty particles, blew out his candle ; but he found it 
unnecessary, for the gray dawn had come. Looking out, he 
saw nothing at first ; but a second look, turned downwards, 
showed him a little half-frozen child, who looked quietly, but be- 
seechingly, in his face. His hair was filled with drifted snow, 
and his little hands and cheeks were blue with cold. The 
heart of the school-master swelled to bursting with the spring- 
flood of love and pity that rose up within it. He lifted the 
child to his bosom, and carried him into the house, where, in 
tiie dream’s incongruity, he found a fire blazing in the room in 
which he now slept. The child said never a word. He 
set him by the fire, and made haste to get hot water, and 
put him in a warm bath. He never doubted that this 
was a stray orphan who had wandered to him for protec- 
tion, and he felt that he could not part with him again, 
even though the train of his previous troubles and doubts 
once more passed through the mind of the dreamer, and there 
seemed no answer to his perplexities for the lack of that cheap 
thing, gold, — yea, silver. But when he had undressed and 
bathed the little orphan, and having dried him on his knees, 
set him down to reach something warm to wrap him in, the boy 
suddenly looked up in his face, as if revived, and said with a 
heavenly smile, 1 I am the child Jesus.’ — ‘ The child Jesus ! ’ 
said the dreamer, astonished. 1 Thou art like any other child.’ 
‘No, do not say so,’ returned the boy, * but say, Any ot/iel 


132 


ADELA CATHCART. 


child is like me' And the child and the dream slowly faded 
away, and he awoLe with these words sounding in his heart : 
1 Whosoever shall receive one of such children in my name, 
receiveth me ; and whosoever shall receive me, receiveth not 
me, but him that sent me . 5 It was the voice of God saying to 
him : 1 Thou wouldst receive the child whom I sent thee out of 
the cold, stormy night; receive the new child out of the cold 
waste into the warm human house, as the door by which it can 
enter God’s house, its home. If better could be done for it, 
or for thee, would I have sent it hither ? Through thy love, 
my little one must learn my love and be blessed. And thou 
shalt not keep it without thy reward. For thy necessities, — • 
in thy little house, is there not yet room? in thy barrel, is 
there not yet meal ? and thy purse is not empty quite. Thou 
canst not eat more than a mouthful at once. I have made thee 
so. Is it any trouble to me to take care of thee ? Only I 
prefer to feed thee from my own hand, and not from thy store . 5 
And the school-master sprang up in joy, ran upstairs, kissed 
his wife, and clasped the baby in his arms in the name of the 
child Jesus. And in that embrace, he knew that he received 
God to his heart. Soon, with a tender, beaming face, he was 
wading through the snow to the school-house, where he spent 
a happy day amidst the rosy faces and bright eyes of his boys 
and girls. These, likewise, he loved the more dearly and joy- 
fully for that dream, and those words in his heart ; so that, 
amidst their true child-faces (all going well with them, as not un- 
frequently happened in his school-room), he felt as if all the 
elements of Paradise were gathered around him, and knew that 
he was God’s child, doing God’s work. 

u But while that dream was passing through the soul of the 
husband, another visited the wife, as she lay in the faintness 
and trembling joy of the new motherhood. For although she 
that has been mother before is not the less a new mother to 
the new child, her former relation not covering with its wings 
the fresh bird in the nest of her bosom, yet there must be a 
peculiar delight :n the thoughts and feelings that come with the 
first-born. As she lay half in a sleep, half in a faint, with 
the vapors of a gentle delirium floating through her brain, 
without losing the sense of existence she lost the consciousness 
of its form, and thought she lav, not a young mother in her 


ADELA CATIICART. 


133 


bed, but a nosegay of wild flowers in a basket, crushed, flattened 
and half withered. With her in the basket lay other bunches 
of flowers, whose odors, some rare as well as rich, revealed to 
her the sad contrast in which she was placed. Beside her lay 
a cluster of delicately curved, faintly tinged, tea-scented roses, 
while she was only blue hyacinth bells, pale primroses, amethyst 
anemones, closed blood-colored daisies, purple violets, and one 
sweet-scented, pure white orchis. The basket lay on the 
counter of a well-known little shop in the village, waiting for 
purchasers. By and by her own husband entered the shop, 
and approached the basket to choose a nosegay. 1 Ah ! 9 
thought she, 1 will he choose me ? How dreadful if he should 
not, and I should be left lying here, while he takes another ! 
But how should he choose me ? They are all so beautiful, and 
even my scent is nearly gone. And he cannot know that it is 
I lying here. Alas ! alas ! J But as she thought thus, she 
felt his hand clasp her, heard the ransom-money fall, and felt 
that she was pressed to his face and lips, as he passed from 
the shop. He had chosen her ; he had known her. She 
opened her eyes ; her husband’s kiss had awakened her. She 
did not speak, but looked up thankfully in his eyes, as if he 
had, in fact, like one of the old knights, delivered her from the 
transformation of some evil magic, by the counter-enchantment of 
a kiss, and restored her from a half-withered nosegay to be a 
woman, a wife, a mother. The dream comforted her much, for 
she had often feared that she, the simple, so-called uneducated 
girl, could not be enough for the great school-master. But 
soon her thoughts flowed into another channel ; the tears rose 
in her dark eyes, shining clear from beneath a stream that was 
not of sorrow, and it was only weakness that kept her from 
uttering audible words like these : 4 Bather in heaven, shall I 
trust my husband's love, and doubt thine? Wilt thou meet 
less richly the fearing hope of thy child’s heart, than he in my 
dream met the longing of his wife's ? He was perfected in my 
eyes by the love he bore me ; shall I find thee less complete ? 
Here I lie on thy world, faint, and crushed, and withered ; and 
my soul often seems as if it had lost all the odors that should 
float up in the sweet-smelling savor of thankfulness and love to 
thee. But thou hast only to take me, only to choose me, only 
to clasp me to thy bosom, and I shall be a beautiful singing 


184 


ADELA CATnCART. 


angel, singing to God, and comforting my husband while I sing. 
Father take me, possess me, fill me ! ’ 

“ So she lay patiently waiting for the summer-time of 
restored strength that drew slowly nigh. With her husband 
and her child near her, in her soul, and God everywhere, there 
was for her no death, and no hurt. When she said to herself, 

‘ How rich I am !’ it was with the riches that pass not away, — - 
the riches of the Son of man ; for in her treasures the human 
and the divine were blended, were one. 

“ But there was a hard trial in store for them. They had 
learned to receive what the Father sent ; they had now to learn 
that what he gave he gave eternally, after his own being, — 
his own glory. For ere the mother awoke from her first sleep, 
the baby, — like a frolicsome child-angel, that but tapped at his 
mother’s window and fled, — the baby died ; died while tho 
mother slept away the pangs of its birth ; died while the 
father was teaching other babes out of the joy of his new 
fatherhood. 

“When the mother woke, she lay still in her joy, — the 
joy of a doubled life; and knew not that death had been 
there, and had left behind only the little human coffin. 

“ 1 Nurse, bring me the baby,’ she said at last. ‘I want 
to see it.’ 

“ But the nurse pretended not to hear. 

“ £ I want to nurse it. Bring it.’ 

“ She had not yet learned to say him ; for it was her first 
baby. 

“But the nurse went out of the room, and remained some 
minutes away. When she returned, the mother spoke more 
absolutely, and the nurse was compelled to reply — at last. 

“ £ Nurse, do bring me the baby; I am quite able to nurse 
it now.’ 

“ ‘ Not yet, if you please, ma’am. Really you must rest 
a while first. Do try to go to sleep.’ 

“ The nurse spoke steadily, and looked her, too, straight in 
the face ; and there was a constraint in her voice, a determi- 
nation to be calm, that at once roused the suspicion of the 
mother ; for though her first-born was dead, and she had given 
birth to what was now, as far as the eye could reach, the 


ADELA catiicart. 


135 


waxen image of a son, a child had come from God, and had 
departed to him again ; and she was his mother. 

“And the fear fell upon her heart that it might be as it 
was ; and, looking at her attendant with a face blanched jet 
more with fear than with suffering, she said : — 

“ 1 Nurse, is the baby — ? 7 

“ She could not say dead ; for to utter the word w^uld be 
at once to make it possible that the only fruit of her labor had 
been pain and sorrow. 

“But the nurse saw that further concealment was impossi- 
ble ; and, without another word, went and fetched the hus- 
band, who, with face pale as the mother’s, brought the babj, 
dressed in its white clothes, and laid it bj its mother’s side, 
where it lay too still. 

“ 1 0 ma’am, do not take on so,’ said the nurse, as she 
saw the face of the mother grow like the face of the child, as 
if she were about to rush after him into the dark. 

“ But she was not ‘ taking on ’ at all. She only felt that 
pain at her heart, which is the farewell kiss of a long-cher- 
ished joy. Though cast out of paradise into a world that looked 
very dull and weary, yet, used to suffering, and always claim- 
ing from God the consolation it needed, and satisfied with that / 
she was able, presently, to look up in her husband’s face, and 
try to reassure him of her well-being by a dreary smile. 

“‘Leave the baby,’ she said; and they left it where it 
was. Long and earnestly she gazed on the perfect tiny feat- 
ures of the little alabaster countenance, and tried to feel that 
this was the child she had been so long waiting for. As she 
looked, she fancied she heard it breathe, and she thought, 

1 What if it should be only asleep ! ’ but, alas ! the eyes would 
not open, and when she drew it close to her, she shivered to 
feel it so cold. At length, as her eyes wandered over and 
over the little face, a look of her husband dawned unexpectedly 
upon it ; and, as if the wife’s heart awoke the mother’s, she 
cried out, ‘ Baby ! baby ! ’ and burst into tears, during which 
weeping she fell asleep. 

“When she awoke, she found the babe had been removed 
while she slept. But the unsatisfied heart of the mother 
longed to look again on the form of the child; and again, 
though with remonstrance from the nurse, it was laid beside 


186 


ADELA CATIICART. 


her. All day and all night long, it remained by her side, like 
a little frozen thing that had wandered from its home, and now 
lay dead by the door. 

u Next morning the nurse protested that she must part with 
it, for it made her fret ; but she knew it quieted her, and she 
would *rather keep her little lifeless babe. At length the 
nurse appealed to the father ; and the mother feared he would 
think it necessary to remove it ; but to her joy and gratitude 
he said, ‘ No, no ; let her keep it as long as she likes.’ And 
she loved her husband the more for that ; for he understood 
her. 

“ Then she had the cradle brought near the bed, all ready 
as it was for a live child that had open eyes, and therefore 
needed sleep, — needed the lids of the brain to close, when it 
was filled full of the strange colors and forms of the new 
world. But this one needed no cradle, for it slept on. It 
needed, instead of the little curtains to darken it to sleep, a 
great sunlight to waken it up from the darkness, and the ever- 
satisfied rest. Yet she laid it in the cradle, which she had set 
near her, where she could see it, with the little hand and arm 
laid out on the white coverlet. If she could only keep it so ! 
Could not something be done, if not to awake it, yet to turn 
it to stone, and let it remain so forever ? No ; the body must 
go back to its mother, the earth, and the form which is 
immortal, being the thought of God, must go back to its 
Father, — the Maker. And as it lay in the white cradle, a 
white coffin was being made for it. And the mother thought : 

‘ I wonder which trees are growing coffins for my husband and 
me.’ 

“ But ere the child, that had the prayer of Job in his grief, 
and had died from its mother’s womb, was carried away to be 
buried, the mother prayed over it this prayer : ‘ 0 God, if 
thou wilt not let me be a mother, I have one refuge : I will go 
back and be a child; I will be thy child more than ever. My 
mother-heart will find relief in childhood towards its Father. 
For is it not the same nature that makes the true mother and 
the true child ? Is it not the same thought blossoming up- 
ward and blossoming downward ? So there is God the Father 
and God the Son. Thou wilt keep my little son for me. He 
has gone home to be nursed for me. And when I grow well, 


ADELA CATIICAPwT. 


137 


I will be more simple, and truthful, and joyful in thy sight. 
And now thou art taking away my child, my plaything, from 
me. But I think how pleased I should be, if I had a daughter, 
and she loved me so well that she only smiled when I took her 
plaything from her. Oh! I will not disappoint thee, — thou 
shalt have thy joy. Here I am, do with me what thou wilt ; 
I will only smile.’ 

“ And how fared the heart of the father? At first, in the 
bitterness of his grief, he called the loss of his child a punish- 
ment for his doubt and unbelief ; and the feeling of punish- 
ment made the stroke more keen, and the heart less willing to 
endure it. But better thoughts woke within him ere long. 

“The old woman who swept out his school-room came in 
the evening to inquire after the mistress, and to offer her con- 
dolences on the loss of the baby. She came likewise to tell 
the news, that a certain old man of little respectability had 
departed at last, unregretted by a single soul in the village 
but herself, who had been his nurse through the last tedious 
illness. 

“ The school-master thought with himself : — 

“ £ Can that soiled and withered leaf of a man, and my lit- 
tle snow-flake of a baby, have gone the same road? Will they 
meet by the way? Can they talk about the same thing, — 
anything? They must part on the borders of the shining 
land, and they could hardly speak by the way.’ 

“ ‘ He will live four-and-twenty hours, nurse,’ the doctor 
had said. 

“ ‘ No, doctor; he will die to-night,’ the nurse had replied, 
during which whispered dialogue, the patient had lain breath * 
ing quietly, for the last of suffering was nearly over. 

“ He was at the close of an ill-spent life, not so much selfish- 
ly towards others as indulgently towards himself. He had 
failed of true joy by trying often and perseveringly to create 
a false one ; and now, about to knock at the gate of the other 
world, he bore with him no burden of the good things of this ; 
and one might be tempted to say of him, that it were better 
he had not been born. The great majestic mystery lay before 
him ; but when would he see its majesty? 

“He was dying thus, because he had tried to live as Na- 
ture said he should not live ; and he had taken his own wages 


138 


ADELA CATHCART. 


— for the law of the Maker is the necessity of his creature. 
His own children had forsaken him, for they were not perfect 
as their Father in heaven, who maketh his sun to shine on 
the evil and on the good. Instead of doubling their care as 
his need doubled, they had thought of the disgrace he brought 
on them, and not of the duty they owed him; and now, left 
to die alone for them, he was waited on by this hired nurse, 
who, familiar with death-beds, knew better than the doctor, — 
knew that he could live only a few hours. 

“ Stooping to his ear she had told him, as gently as she 
could, — for she thought she ought not to conceal it, — that he 
must die that night. He had lain silent for a few moments ; 
then had called her, and, with broken and failing voice, had 
said, c Nurse, you are the only friend I have; give me one kiss 
before I die.’ And the woman-heart had answered the prayer. 

“ ‘And,’ said the old woman, ‘he put his arms round my 
neck, and gave me a long kiss, — such a long kiss ! — and then 
he turned his face away, and never spoke again.’ 

“ So, with the last unction of a woman’s kiss, with this 
baptism for the dead, he had departed. 

“ ‘ Poor old man ! he had not quite destroyed his heart yet/ 
thought the school-master. ‘ Surely it was the child-nature 
that woke in him at the last, when the only thing left for his 
soul to desire, the only thing he could think of as a prepara- 
tion for the dread something, was a kiss. Strange conjunc- 
tion, yet simple and natural ! Eternity — a kiss. Kiss me ; 
for I am going to the Unknown ! — Poor old man!’ the school- 
master went on in his thoughts, ‘ I hope my baby has met him, 
and put his tiny hand in the poor old shaking hand, and so led 
him across the borders into the shining land, and up to where 
Jesus sits and said to the Lord : “ Lord, forgive this old man, 
for he knew not what he did.” And I trust the Lord has for- 
given him.’ 

‘ ' And then the bereaved father fell on his knees, and cried 
out : — 

“‘Lord, thou hast not punished me. Thou wouldst not 
punish for a passing thought of troubled unbelief, with which 
I strove. Lord, take my child and his mother and me, and 
do what thou wilt with us. I know thou givest not, to take 
again. *' 


ADELA CATIICART. 


139 


tC And ere the school-master could call his protestantism to 
his aid, he had ended his prayer with the cry : — 

“ 1 And, 0 God ! have mercy upon the poor old man, and 
lay not his sins to his charge.’ 

“ For, though a woman’s kiss may comfort a man to eter- 
nity, it is not all he needs. And the thought of his lost child 
had made the soul of the father compassionate.” 

He ceased, and we sat silent. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

SONG. 

I CONFESS I was a little dismayed to find what a solemn 
turn the club-stories had taken. But this dismay lasted for a 
moment only ; for I saw that Adela was deeply interested, 
again wearing the look that indicates abstracted thought and 
feeling. I said to myself : — 

“ This is very different mental fare from what you have been 
used to, Adela.” 

But she seemed able to mark, learn, and inwardly digest it, 
for she had the appearance of one who is stilled by the strange 
newness of her thoughts. I was sure that she w r as now expe- 
riencing a consciousness of existence quite different from any- 
thing she had known before. But it had a curious outcome. 

For, when the silence began to grow painful, no one daring 
to ask a question, and Mrs. Cathcart had resumed her knitting, 
Adela suddenly rose, and, going to the piano, struck a few 
chords, and began to sing. The song was one of Heine’s 
strange ghost-dream3, so unreal in everything but feeling, and 
therefore, as dreams, so true. Why did she choose such a 
song after what we had been listening to ? I accounted for it 
by the supposition that, being but poorly provided as far as 
variety in music went, this was the only thing suggested to her 
by the tone of the paper, and, therefore, the nearest she could 


140 


ADELA CATIICART. 


come to it. It served, however, to make a change and a tran- 
sition ; which was, as I thought, very desirable, lest any of 
the company should be scared from attending the club ; and I 
resolved that I would divert the current, next time, if I could. 

This was what Adela sang ; and the singing of it was evi- 
dently a relief to her : — 

I dreamt of the daughter of a king, 

With a cheek white, wet, and chill ; 

Under the limes we sat murmuring, 

And holding each other so still ! 

“ Oh! not thy father's sceptre of gold, 

Nor yet his shining throne, 

Nor his diamond crown that glitters cold, — 

’Tis thyself I want, my own ! ” 

“ Oh ! that is too good,” she answered me , 

“ I lie in the grave all day; 

And only at night I come to thee, 

Eor I cannot keep away.” 

It was something that she had volunteered a song, whatever 
it was. But it is a misfortune that, in writing a book, one 
cannot give the music of a song. Perhaps, by the time that 
music has its fair part in education, this may be done. But, 
meantime, we mention the fact of a song, and then give the 
words, as if that were the song. The music is the song, and 
the words are no more than the saddle on which the music sits, 
the singer being the horse, who could do without a saddle well 
enough. — May Adela forgive the comparison ! — At the same 
time, a true word-song has music of its own, and is quite inde- 
pendent, for its music, both of that which it may beget, and 
of that with which it may be associated. 

As she rose, she glanced towards the doctor, and said : — 

“Now it is your turn, Mr. Armstrong.” 

Harry did not wait for a second invitation ; for to sing was 
to him evidently a pleasure too great to be put in jeopardy. 
He rose at once, and, sitting down at the instrument, sang — - 
I cannot say as follows , you see ; I can only say the following 
words : — 

Autumn clouds are flying, flying, 

O’er the waste of blue ; 

Summer flowers are lying, dying, 

Late so lovely new 


ADELA CATHCART. 


141 


Laboring wains are slowly rolling 
Home with winter grain ; 

Holy bells are slowly tolling 
Over buried men. 

Goldener lights set noon a-sleeping 
Like an afternoon ; 

Colder airs come stealing, creeping 
After sun and moon ; 

And the leaves, all tired of blowing, 
Cloudlike o’er the sun, 

Change to sunset-colors, knowing 
That their day is done. 

Autumn’s sun is sinking, sinking 
Into Winter’s night; 

And our hearts are thinking, thinking 
Of the cold and blight. 

Our life’s sun is slowly going 
Down the hill of might; 

Will our clouds shine golden-glowing 
On the slope of night ? 

But the vanished corn is lying 
In rich golden glooms. 

In the church-yard, all the sighing 
Is above the tombs. 

Spring will come, slow-lingering, 
Opening buds of faith. 

Man goes forth to meet his spring, 
Through the door of death. 

So we love, with no less loving, 

Hair that turns to gray ; 

Or a step less lightly moving 
In life’s autumn day. 

And if thought, still-brooding, lingers 
O’er each bygone thing, 

’Tis because old Autumn’s fingers 
Paint in hues of Spring. 


Ttie whole tone of this song was practical and true, and so 
was fitted to correct the unhealthiness of imagination which 
might have been suspected in the choice of the preceding. 
“ Words and music , ” I said to myself, l: must here have come 
from the same hand ; for they are one utterance. There is 
no setting of words to music here ; but the words have brought 
their own music with them ; and the music has brought its 
own words '' 

As Harry rose from the piano-forte, he said to me gayly : — 


142 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ Now, Mr. Smith, it is your turn. I know when you sing, i 
it will be something worth listening to.” 

“Indeed, I hope so,” I answered. “But the song-hour 
has not yet come to me. How good you all ought to be who i 
can sing ! I feel as if my heart would break with delight, if 
I could sing ; and yet there is not a sparrow on the house-top 
that cannot sing a better song than I.” 

“ Your hour will come,” said the clergyman, solemnly. 

“ Then you will sing, and all we shall listen. There is no 
inborn longing that shall not be fulfilled. I think that is as 
certain as the forgiveness of sins. Meantime, while your 
singing-robes are making, I will take your place with my 
song, if Miss Cathcart will allow me.” 

“ Do, please,” said Adela, very heartily ; “ we shall all be 
delighted.” 

The clergyman sang, and sang even better than his brother. 
And these were the words of his song : — 


THE MOTHER MARY TO THE INFANT uESUS. 

’Tis time to sleep, my little boy ; 

Why gaze thy bright eyes so ? 

At night, earth’s children, for new joy, 

Home to thy Father go. 

But thou art wakeful. Sleep, my child ; 

The moon and stars are gone ; 

The wind and snow they grow more wild, 

And thou art smiling on. 

My child, thou hast immortal eyes, 

That see by their own light ; 

They see the innocent blood, — it lies 
Red-glowing through the night. 

Through wind and storm unto thine ear 
Cry after cry doth run ; 

And yet thou seemest not to hear, 

And only smilest on. 

When first thou earnest to the earth, 

All sounds of strife were still: 

A silence lay around thy birth, 

And thou didst sleep thy fill. 

Why sleep’st thou, — nay, why weep’st thou aos* 
Thy earth is woe-begone ; 

Babies and mothers wail their lot, 

And still thou smilest on. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


143 


I read thine eyes like holy book ; 

No strife is pictured there; 

Upon thy face I see the look 
Of one who answers prayer. 

Ah, yes ! — Thine eyes, beyond this wild, 

Behold God’s will well done ; 

Men's songs thine cars are hearing, child ; 

And so thou smilest on. 

The prodigals arise and go. 

And God goes forth to meet ! 

Thou seest them gather, weeping low, 

About the Father’s feet. 

And for their brothers men must bear, 

Till all are homeward gone. 

O Eyes, ye see my answered prayer ! 

Smile, Son of God, smile on ! 

As soon as the vibrations of this song, I do not mean on the 
chords of the instrument, but in the echo-caves of our bosoms, 
had ceased, I turned to the doctor and said : — 

“ Are you ready with your story yet, Mr. Henry ? ” 

“Ob, dear, no!” he answered, — “not for days. I am 
not an idle man like you. Mr. Smith. I belong to the labor- 
ing class.” 

I knew that he could not have it ready. 

“Well,” I said, “if our friends have no objection, I will 
give you another myself next time.” 

“ Oh ! thank you, uncle,” said Adela. “ Another fairy- 
tale, please.” 

“ I can’t promise you another fairy-tale just yet, but I can 
promise you something equally absurd, if that will do.” 

“Oh, yes! Anything you like, uncle. /, for one, am 
sure to like what you like.” 

“Thank you, my dear. Now I will go; for I see the 
doctor waiting to have a word with you.” 

The company took their leave, and the doctor was nit two 
minutes behind them ; for, as I went up to my room, after ask- 
ing the curate when I might call upon him, I saw him come 
out of the drawing-room and go downstairs. 

“Monday evening, then,” I had heard the colonel say, aa 
he followed his guests to the hall. 


144 


ADELA CATHCART. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE CURATE AND HIS WIFE. 

As I approached the door of the little house in which the 
Curate had so lately taken up his abode, he saw me from the 
window, and, before I had had time to knock, he had opened 
the door. 

“ Come in,” he said. u I saw you coming. Come to my 
den, and we will have a pipe together.” 

“ I have brought some of my favorite cigars,” I said, 
“ and I want you to try them.” 

“ With all my heart.” 

The room to which he led me was small, but disfigured with 
no offensive tidiness. Not a spot of wall was to be seen for 
books, and yet there were not many books after all. We sat 
for some minutes enjoying the fragrance of the western incense, 
without other communion than that of the clouds we were 
blowing, and what I gathered from the walls. For I am old 
enough, as I have already confessed, to be getting long-sighted, 
and I made use of the gift in reading the names of the curate’s 
books, as I had read those of his brother’s. They were mostly 
books of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, with a large 
admixture from the nineteenth, and more than the usual pro- 
portion of the German classics ; though, strange to say, not a 
single volume of German Theology could I discover. The 
curate was the first to break the silence. 

u I find this a very painful cigar,” he said, with a half 
laugh. 

I am sorry you don’t like it. Try another.” 

“ The cigar is magnificent.” 

“ Isn’t it thoroughfare, then ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! the cigar’s all right. I haven’t smoked such a 
cigar for more than ten years ; and that’s the reason.” 

u I wish I had known you seven years, Mr. Armstrong.” 

“ You have known me a hundred and seven.” 

Then I have a right to — ” 


ADELA GATHCAET. 


145 


And as Mr. Armstrong said so, he poked his own chest, to 
signify the symbolism of his words. 

“ Then I should like to know something of your early 
history, — something to account for the fact that a man like 
you, at your time of life, i3 only a curate.” 

“I can do all that, and account for the pain your cigar 
gives me. in one and the same story.” 

I sat full of expectation. 

“ You won’t find me long-winded, I hope.” 

u No fear of that. Begin directly. I adjure you by our 
friendship of a hundred years.” 

II My father was a clergyman before me; one of those sim- 
ple-hearted men who think that to be good and kind is the 
first step towards doing God’s work ; but who are too modest, 
too ignorant, and sometimes too indolent, to aspire to any 
second step, or even to inquire what the second step may be. 
The poor in his parish loved him and preyed upon him. He 
gave and gave, even after he had no more that he had a right 
to give. 

“ He was not by any means a rich man, although he had a 
little property besides his benefice ; but he managed to send 
me to Oxford. Inheriting, as I suspect, a little tendency to 
extravagance, having at least no love of money except for 
what it would bring, and seeing how easily money might be 
raised there for need true or false, I gradually learned to 
think less and less of the burdens grievous to be borne, which 
a subjection to Mammon will accumulate on the shoulders of 
the unsuspecting ass. I think the old men of the sea, in 1 Sind- 
bad the Sailor,’ must personify debt. At least / have found 
reason to think so. At the same time I wish I had done noth- 
ing worse than run into debt. Yet by far the greater part of 
it was incurred for the sake of having works of art about me. 
Of course pictures were out of the question ; but good engrav- 
ings and casts were within the reach of a borrower. At least 
it was not for the sake of whip-handles and trowsers, that I 
fell into the clutches of Moses Melchizedek, — for that was the 
devil to whom I betrayed my soul for money. Emulation, 
however, mingled with the love of art ; and I must confess, 
too, that cigars cost me money as well as pictures : and, as I 


146 


ADELA CATHCART. 


have already hinted, there was worse behind. But some 
things we can only speak to God about. 

• l I shall never forget the oily face of the villain — may God 
save him, and then he’ll be no villain! — as he first hinted that 
he would lend me any money I might want, upon certain in- 
significant conditions, such as signing for a hundred and fifty, 
where I should receive only a hundred. The sunrise of the 
future glowed so golden, that it seemed to me the easiest thing 
in the world to pay my debts there . Here, there was what 
I wanted, cigars and all. There, there must be gold, else 
whence the hue? I could pay all my debts in the future 
with the utmost ease. How was no matter. I borrowed and 
borrowed. I flattered myself, besides, that in the things I 
bought I held money’s worth ; which, in the main, would have 
been true, if I had been a dealer in such things; but a mere 
owner can seldom get the worth of what he possesses, especially 
when he cannot choose but sell, and has no choice of his mar- 
ket. So when, horrified at last with the filth of the refuge into 
which I had run to escape the bare walls of heaven, I sold off 
everything but a few of my pet books,” — here he glanced 
lovingly round his humble study, where shone no glories of 
print or cast, — “ which I ought to have sold as well, I found 
myself still a thousand pounds in debt. 

“Now, although I had never had a thousand pounds from 
Melchizedck, I had known perfectly well what I was about. I 
had been deluded, but not cheated ; and in my deep I saw yet 
a lower depth, into which I ivould not fall, — for then I felt I 
should be lost indeed, — that of in any way repudiating my 
debts. But what was to be done I had no idea. 

“ I had studied for the ehurcli, and I now took holy orders. 
I had a few pounds a year from my mother's property, which 
all went in part-payment of the interest of my debt. I dared 
not trouble my father with any communication on the subject 
of my embarrassment, for I knew that he could not help me, 
and that the impossibility of doing so would make him moie 
unhappy than the wrong I had done in involving myself. I 
seized the first offer of a curacy that presented itself. Its 
emoluments were just one hundred pounds a year, of which I 
had not to return twenty pounds, as some curates have had to 
do. Out of this I had to pay one half, in interest for the 


ADELA CATHCART. 


147 


thousand pounds. On the other half, and the trifle my mother 
allowed me, I contrived to live. 

“ But the debt continued undiminished. It lay upon me as 
a mountain might crush a little Titan. There was no cracking 
frost, no cutting stream, to wear away, by slowest trituration, 
that mountain of folly and wickedness. But what I suffered 
most from was the fact that I must seem to the poor of my 
parish unsympathetic and unkind. For, although I still man- 
aged to give away a little, it seemed to me such a small, shabby 
sum, every time that I drew my hand from my pocket, in 
which perhaps I had left still less, that it was with a positive 
feeling of shame that I offered it. There was no high gener- 
osity in this. It was mostly selfish, — the effect of the trans- 
mission of my father’s blind benevolence, working as an im- 
pulse in me. But it made me wretched. Add to this a feel- 
ing of hypocrisy, in the knowledge that I, the dispenser of 
sacred things to the people, was myself the slave of a money- 
lending Jew, and you will easily see how my life could not be 
to me the reality which it must be, for any true and healthy 
action, to every man. In a word, I felt that I was a humbug. 
As to my preaching, that could not have had much reality in 
it of any kind, for I had no experience yet of the relation of 
Christian Faith to Christian Action. In fact, I regarded 
them as separable, — not merely as distinguishable, in the 
necessity which our human nature, itself an analysis of the 
divine, has for analyzing itself. I respected everything con- 
nected with my profession, which I regarded as in itself emi- 
nently respectable; but, then, it was only the profession I 
respected, and I was only doing church at best. I have since 
altered my opinion about the profession, as such ; and while 
I love my work with all my heart, I do not care to think about 
its worldly relations at all. The honor is to be a servant of. 
men, whom God thought worth making, worth allowing to sin, 
and worth helping out of it at such a cost. But as far as re- 
gards the profession, is it a manly kind of work, to put on a 
white gown once a week, and read out of a book ; and then 
put on a black gown, and read out of a paper you bought or 
wrote. — all about certain old time-honored legends which have 
some influence in keeping the common people on their good 
behavior, by promising them happiness after they are dead, if 


148 


ABELA CATIICART. 


they are respectable, and everlasting tcrture if they are 
blackguards? Is it manly ? ” 

“ You are scarcely fair to the professior even as such, Mr. 
Armstrong,” I said. 

“ That’s what I feel about it,” he answered. “Look here,” 
he went on, holding out a brawny right arm, witl muscles like 
a prize-fighter’s; “they may laugh at what, by a happy hit, 
they have called muscular Christianity, — I for one don’t object 
to being laughed at, — but I ask you, is that work fit for a 
man to whom God has given an arm like that ? I declare to 
you, Smith, I would rather work in the docks, and leave the 
c hurdling to the softs and dandies ; for then I should be able 
to respect myself as giving work for my bread, instead of draw- 
ing so many pounds a year for talking goody to old wives and 
sentimental young ladies ; — for over men who are worth any- 
thing, such a man has no influence. God forbid that I should be 
disrespectful to old women, or even sentimental young ladies ! 
They are worth serving w r ith a man’s wdiole heart, but not 
worth pampering. I am speaking of the profession as pro- 
fessed by a mere clergyman, — one in whom the professional 
predominates.” 

11 But you can’t use those splendid muscles of yours in the 
church.” 

“ But I can give up the use of them for something better 
and nobler. They indicate work ; but if I can do real spirit- 
ual instead of corporeal work, I rise in the scale. I sacrifice 
my thews on the altar of my faith. But by the mere clergyman, 
there is no work done to correspond, — I do not say to his 
capacity for work, but to the capacity for w r ork indicated by such 
a frame as mine, — work of some sort, if not of the high poetic 
order, then of the lower porter -sort. But if there be a living 
God, who is doing all he can to save men, to make them pure 
and noble and high, humble and loving and true, to make them 
live the life he cares to live himself ; if he has revealed and is 
revealing this to men, and needs for his purpose the work of 
their fellow-men, who have already seen and known this pur- 
pose, — surely there is no nobler office than that of a parson ; 
for to him is committed the grand work of letting men see the 
thoughts of God, and the work of God, — in a word, of telling 
the story of Jesus, so that men shall see how true it is for now, 


ADELA CATHCART. 


141 ) 

how beautiful it is for ever; and recognize it as in fact the 
story of God. Then a clergyman has simply to be more of a 
man than other men ; whereas if he be but a clergyman he is 
less of a man than any other man who does honestly the work 
he has to do, whether he be farm-laborer, shoemaker, or shop- 
keeper. For such a work, a man may well pine in a dungeon, 
or starve in a curacy ; yea, for such a work, a man will en- 
dure the burden of having to dispense the wealth of a bishop- 
ric after a divine fashion.” 

“ But your story ? ” I said at last, unwilling as I was to in- 
terrupt his eloquence. 

“ Yes. This brings me back to it. Here was I starving 
for no high principle, only for the commonplace one of paying 
my debts ; and paying my debts out of the church’s money 
too, for which, scanty as it was, I gave wretched labor, — 
reading prayers as neatly as I could, and preaching sermons 
half evangelical, half scholastic, of the most unreal and unin- 
teresting sort, feeling all the time hypocritical, as I have already 
said, and without the farthest prospect of deliverance. 

“ Then I fell in love.” 

“ Worse and worse ! ” 

“ So it seemed, but so it wasn’t, — like a great many things. 
At all events, she’s downstairs now, busy at a baby’s frock, I 
believe ; God bless her ! Lizzie is the daughter of a lieutenant 
in the army, who died before I knew her. She was living with 
her mother and elder sister, on a very scanty income, in the 
village where I had the good fortune to be the unhappy curate. 
I believe I was too unhappy to make myself agreeable to the 
few young ladies of my congregation, which is generally con- 
sidered one of the first duties of a curate, in order, no doubt, 
to secure their co-operation in his charitable schemes ; and cer- 
tainly I do not think I received any great attention from them, 
— certainly not from Lizzie. I thought she pitied and rather 
despised me. I don’t know whether she did, but I still suspect 
it. I am thankful to say I have no ground for thinking she 
does now. But we have been through a kind of a moderate- 
burning fiery furnace together, and that brings out the sense, 
and burns out the nonsense, in both men and women. Not 
that Lizzie had much nonsense to be burned out of her, as you 
will soon see 


150 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“ I bad often been fool enough to wonder that, while she 
was most attentive and devout during the reading of the service, 
her face assumed, during the sermon, a far-off look of abstrac- 
tion, that indicated no reception of what I said, further than 
as an influence of soporific quality. I felt that there was 
reproof in this. In fact, it roused my conscience yet more, 
and made me doubt whether there was anything genuine in me 
at all. Sometimes I felt as if I really could not go on, but 
must shut up my poor manuscript, which was ; an ill-favored 
thing, sir, but mine own,’ and comedown from the pulpit, and 
beg Miss Lizzie Payton’s pardon for presuming to read it in 
her presence. At length that something, or rather want of 
something, in her quiet, unregarding eyes, aroused a certain 
opposition, ambition, indignation, in me. I strove to write better, 
and to do better generally. Every good sentence I launched 
at her, — I don’t quite know whether I aimed at her heart or 
her head ; I fear the latter ; but I know that I looked after 
my arrow with a hurried glance, to see whether it had reached 
the mark. Seldom, however, did I find that my bow had the 
strength to arouse Miss Lizzie from the somniculose condition 
which, in my bitterness, I attributed to her. Since then I 
have frequently tried to bring home to her the charge, and 
wring from her the confession that, occasionally, just occasion- 
ally, she was really overpowered by — the weather. But she 
has never admitted more than one such lapse, which, happen- 
ing in a hard frost, and the church being no warmer than con- 
descension, she wickedly remarked must have been owing, not 
to the weight of the atmosphere, but the weight of something 
else. At length, in my anxiety for self-justification, I per- 
suaded myself that her beha vior was a sign of spiritual insensi- 
bility ; that she needed conversion ; that she looked with con- 
tempt from the far-off table-lands of the Broad church, or the 
dizzy pinnacles of snow-clad Puseyism, upon the humble efforts 
of one who followed in the footsteps of the first fishers of men, 
— for such I tried, in my self-protection, to consider myself. 

“ One day, I happened to meet her in a retired lane neat 
the village. She was carrying a jug in her hand. 

u 1 How do you do, Miss Lizzie ? A labor of love ? ’ I said, 
ass that I was ! 


ADELA CATHCART. 


151 


C££ Yes,’ she answered; 1 I’ve been over to Farmer Dale’s, 
to fetch some cream for mamma’s tea.’ 

u She knew well enough I had meant a ministration to the 
poor. 

11 1 Oh ! I beg your pardon,’ I rejoined ; £ I thought you had 
been round your district.’ 

“ This was wicked; for I knew quite well that she had no 
district. 

££ £ No,’ she answered, £ I leave that to my sister. Mamma 
is my district. And, do you know, her headaches are as painful 
as any washerwoman’s.’ 

“ This shut me up rather ; but I plucked up courage presently. 

t£ £ You don’t seem to like going to church, Miss Lizzie ? ’ 

“ Her face flushed. 

“ ‘Who dares to say so ? I am very regular in my attend- 
ance.’ 

“ £ Not a doubt of it. But you don’t enjoy being there?’ 

“ ‘ I do.’ 

“ 1 Confess, now. You don’t like my sermons.’ 

“ 1 Do you like them yourself, Mr. Armstrong ? ’ 

t£ Here was a floorer ! Did I like them myself? I really 
couldn’t honestly say I did. I was not greatly interested in 
them, further than as they were my own, and my best attempts 
to say something about something I knew nothing about. I 
was silent. She stood looking at me out of clear gray eyes. 

“ 1 Now you have begun this conversation, Mr. Armstrong, 
I will go on with it,’ she said, at length. 1 It was not of my 
seeking. I do not think you believe what you say in the pul- 
pit.’ 

“Not believe what I said! Did I believe what I said? 
Or did I only believe that it was to be believed ? The tables 
were turned with a vengeance. Here was the lay lamb, at- 
tacked and about to be worried by the wolf clerical, turning 
and driving the said wolf to bay. I stood and felt like a con- 
victed criminal before the gray eyes of my judge. And 
somehow 7 or other I did not hate those clear pools of 
light. They were very beautiful. But not one w r ord could 
I find to say for myself. I stood and looked at her, and I fear 
I began to twitch at my neckcloth, with a vague instinct that 
I had better go and hang myself. I stared and stared, — and no 


152 


ADELA CATHCAIiT. 


doubt got as red as a turkey-cock, — till it began to be very 
embarrassing indeed. What refuge could there be from ono 
who spoke the truth so plainly ? And how do you think I got 
out of it?” asked Mr. Armstrong of me, John Smith, who, 
as he told the story, felt almost in as great confusion and misery 
as the narrator must have been in at the time, although now 
he looked amazingly jolly, and breathed away at his cigar with 
the slow exhalations of an epicure. 

a Mortal cannot tell,” I answered. 

“ One mortal can,” rejoined he, with a laugh. “I fell on 
my knees, and made speechless love to her.” 

Here came a pause. The countenance of the Broad-church- 
man changed as if a lovely summer cloud had passed over it. 
The jolly air vanished, and he looked very solemn for a little 
while. 

“ There was no coxcombry in it, Smith. I may say that 
for myself. It was the simplest and truest thing I ever did in 
my life. How was I to help it ? There stood the visible truth 
before me, looking out of the woman’s gray eyes. What was 
I to do ? I thank God I have never seen the truth plain be- 
fore me, let it look ever so ghostly, without rushing at it. 
All my advances have been by a sudden act, — to me like an 
inspiration : — an act done in terror, almost, lest I should stop 
and think about it, and fail to do it. And here was no ghost, 
but a woman-angel, whose Thou art the man was spoken out 
of profundities of sweetness and truth. Could I turn my back 
upon her? Could I parley with her? — with the Truth? 
No. I fell on my knee3, weeping like a child ; for all my 
misery, all my sense of bondage and untruth, broke from me 
in those tears. 

“ My hat had fallen off as I knelt. My head was bowed on 
my hands. I felt as if she could save me. I dared not look 
up. She tells me since that she was bewildered and frightened ; 
but I discovered nothing of that. At length I felt a light 
pressure, a touch of healing, fall on my bended head. It was 
her hand. Still I hid my face, for I was ashamed before her. 

“ ‘Come,’ she said, in a low voice, which I dare say she com- 
pelled to be firm ; ‘ come with me into the Westland Woods. 
There we can talk. Some one may come this way.’ 

“ She has told me since that a kind of revelation came to 


ADELA CATHCART. 


153 


her at the moment ; a sight not of the future but of the fact , 
and that this lifted her high above every feeling of mere pro- 
priety, substituting for it a conviction of right. She felt that 
God had given this man to her ; and she no more hesitated to 
ask me to go with her into the woods than she would hesitate 
to go with me now if I asked her. And indeed, if she had not 
done so, I don’t know what would have come of it, — how the 
story would have ended. I believe I should be kneeling there 
now, a whitened skeleton, to the terror and warning of all 
false churchmen who should pass through the lonely lane. 

“ I rose at once, like an obedient child, and turned in the 
direction of the Westland Woods, feeling that she was by my 
side, but not yet daring to look at her. Now there are few 
men to whom I would tell the trifle that followed. It was a 
trifle as to the outside of it ; but it is amazing what virtue , 
in the old meaning of the word, may lie in a trifle. The rec- 
ognition of virtue is at the root of all magical spells, and 
amulets, and talismans. Mind, I felt from the first that you 
and I would understand each other.” 

“You rejoice my heart,” I said. 

“Well, the first thing I had to do, as you may suppose, to 
make me fit to look at her, was to wipe my eyes. I put my 
hand in my pocket ; then the other hand in the other pocket ; 
then my first hand in the breast-pocket; and the slow-dawning, 
awful truth became apparent, that here was a great brute of a 
curate, who had been crying like a baby, and had no handker- 
chief. A moment of keen despair followed, — chased away 
by a vision of hope, in the shape of a little white cloud be- 
tween me and the green grass. This cloud floated over a 
lady’s hand, and was in fact a delicate handkerchief. I took 
it, and brought it to my eyes, which gratefully acknowledged 
the comfort. And the scent of the lavender, — not lavender 
water, but the lavender itself, that puts you in mind of country 
churches, and old Bibles, and dusky, low-ceiled parlors on Sun- 
day afternoons, — the scent of the lavender was so pure and 
sweet, and lovely ! It gave me courage. 

“ ‘ May I keep it ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘Yes. Keep it,’ she answered. 

“ 1 Will you take my arm now ? ’ 

“ For answer, she took my arm, and we entered the woods. 


154 


ADELA CATHCART. 


It was a summer afternoon. The sun had outflanked the 
thick clouds of leaves that rendered the woods impregnable 
from overhead, and was now shining in, a little sideways, with 
that slumberous light belonging to summer afternoons, in 
which everything, mind and all, seems half asleep and all 
dreaming. 

“ ‘ Let me carry the jug,’ I said. 

“ ‘ No,’ she answered, with a light laugh ; ‘you would be 
sure to spill the cream, and spoil both your coat and mamma’s 
tea.’ 

11 1 Then put it down in this hollow till we come back.’ 

“ ‘ It would be full of flies and beetles in a moment. Besides, 
we won’t come back this w T ay. shall we ? I can carry it quite 
w r ell. Gentlemen don’t like carrying things.’ 

“ I feared lest the tone the conversation had assumed might 
lead me away from the resolution I had formed v T hile kneeling 
in the lane. So, as usual with me, I rushed blindly on the 
performance. 

“ ‘ Miss Lizzie, I am a hypocritical and unhappy wretch.’ 

“ She looked up at me with a face full of compassionate 
sympathy. I could have lost myself in that gaze. But I 
would not be turned from my purpose, of which she had no 
design, though her look had almost the power ; and the flood- 
gates of speech once opened, out it came, the whole confession 
I have made to you, in what form or manner I found, the very 
first time I looked back upon the relation, that I had quite 
forgotten. 

“ All the time, the sun was sending ever so many sloping 
ladders of light dowm through the trees, for there was a little 
mist rising that afternoon ; and I felt as if they were the same 
kind of ladder that Jacob saw, inviting a man to climb up to 
the light and peace of God. I felt as if upon them invisible 
angels were going down all through the summer wood, and 
that the angels must love our woods as we love their skies. 
And amidst the trees and the ladders of ether, we walked, and 
I talked, and Lizzie listened to all I had to say, without utter 
ing a syllable till I had finished. 

“ At length, having disclosed my whole bondage and grief, 
l ended witii the question : — 

“ ‘ Now what is to be done? ’ 


ADELA CATIICART. 


155 

“ She looked up in my face with those eyes of truth, and 
said : — 

“ ‘That money must be paid, Mr. Armstrong.’ 

“ ‘ But how? ’ I responded, in despair. 

£ £ She did not seem to heed my question, but she really an- 
swered it. 

“ ‘ And, if I were you, I would do no more duty till it was 
paid.’ 

“ Here was decision with a vengeance. It was more than I 
had bargained for. I was dumb. A moment’s reflection, how- 
ever, showed me that she was perfectly right ; that what I 
had called decision with a vengeance was merely the utter- 
ance of a child’s perception of the true way to walk in. 

“Still I was silent; for long vistas of duty, and loss, and 
painful action and effort opened before me. At length I said : — 

“ 1 You are quite right, Miss Lizzie.’ 

“ ‘ I wish I could pay it for you,’ she rejoined, looking up 
in my face with an expression of still tenderness, while the 
tears clouded her eyes just as clouds of a deeper gray come 
over the gray depths of some summer skies. 

“ ‘ But you can help me to pay it.’ 

“ ‘ How ? ’ 

“ ‘ Love me,’ I said, and no more. I could not. 

“ The only answer she made was to look up at me once 
u>ore, then stop, and, turning towards me, draw herself gen- 
tly against my side, as she held my arm. It was enough, — 
was it not ? 

“ Love me, I said, and she did love me; and she’s down- 
stairs, as I told you ; and I think she is not unhappy.” 

“ But you’re not going to stop there/’ I said. 

“No, I'm not. That very evening I told the vicar that I 
must go. He pressed for my reasons ; but I managed to avoid 
giving a direct answer. I begged him to set me at liberty as 
soon as possible, meaning, when he should have provided him- 
self with a substitute. But he took offence at last, and told 
me I might go when I pleased ; for he was quite able to per- 
form the duties himself. Atfer this, I felt it would be unpleas- 
ant for him as well as for me, if I remained, and so I took him 
at his word. And right glad I was not to have to preach any 
more to Lizzie. It was time for me to act instead of talk. 


156 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“But what was I to do? The moment the idea of ceas- 
ing to do church was entertained by me, the true notion of 
what I was to do instead presented itself. It was this. 1 
would apply to my cousin, the accountant. He was an older 
man, considerably, than myself, and had already made a for- 
tune in his profession. We had been on very good terms in- 
deed, considering that he was a dissenter, and all but bated 
the church ; while, I fear, I quite despised dissenters. I had 
often dined with him, and he had found out that I had a great 
turn for figures, as he called it. Having always been fond of 
mathematics, I had been able to assist him in arriving at a 
true conclusion on what had been to him a knotty point con- 
nected with life insurance ; and consequently he had a high 
opinion of my capacity in his department. 

“ I wrote to him, telling him I had resolved to go into busi- 
ness for a time. I did not choose to enlighten him further; 
and I fear I fared the better with him from his fancying that 
I must have begun to entertain doubts concerning church-es- 
tablishments. I had the cunning not to ask him to employ 
me ; for I thought it very likely he would request my services, 
which would put me in a better position with him. And it 
fell out as I had anticipated. He replied at once, offering me 
one hundred and fifty pounds to begin, with the prospect of an 
annual advance of twenty pounds, if, upon further trial, we 
both found the arrangement to our minds. I knew him to be 
an honorable man, and accepted the proposal at once. And I 
cannot tell how light-hearted I felt as I folded up my canoni- 
cals, and put them in a box to be left, for the mean time, in 
the charge of my landlady. 

“I was troubled with no hesitation as to the propriety of 
the proceeding. Of course I felt that, if it had been mere 
money-making, a clergyman ought to have had nothing to do 
with it ; but I felt now, on the other hand, that if any man 
was bound to pay his debts a clergyman was ; in fact, that he 
could not do his duty till he had paid his debts ; and that the 
wrong was not in turning to business now, but in having un- 
dertaken the office with a weight of filthy lucre on my back 
and my conscience which my pocket could never relieve them 
of. Any scruple about the matter I felt would be only su- 
perstition ; that, in fact, it was a course of action worthy of a 


ADELA CATHCART. 


157 


man. and therefore of a clergyman. I thought well enough 
of the church, too, to believe that every man of any manliness 
in it would say that I had done right. And, to tell the truth, 
so long as Lizzie was satisfied with me I did not care for arch- 
deacon or bishop. I meant just to drop out of the ranks of 
the clergy without sign, and keep my very existence as se- 
cret as possible, until the moment I had achieved my end, 
when I would go to my bishop, and tell him all, requesting to 
be reinstated in my sacred office. There was only one puzzle 
in the affair, and that was how to act towards Mrs. Payton in 
regard to her daughter’s engagement to me. The old lady 
was not gifted with much common sense, I knew ; and I feared 
both that she would be shocked at the idea, and that she would 
not keep my secret. Of course, I consulted Lizzie about it. She 
had been thinking about it already, and had concluded that 
the best way would be for her to tell her mother the fact of 
our engagement, and for me to write to her from London that 
I did not intend taking a second charge for some time yet ; 
and so leave Lizzie to act for the rest as occasion might de- 
mand. All this was very easily managed, and in the course 
of another week, chiefiy devoted to the Westland Woods, I found 
myself at a desk in Cannon Street. 

“ And now began a real experience of life. I had resolved 
to regard the money I earned as the ransom-money of the 
church, paid by her for the redemption of an erring servant 
from the power of Mammon. I would therefore spend upon 
myself not one penny more than could be helped. With this 
view, and perhaps with a lurking notion of penance in some 
corner of my stupid brain, I betook myself to a lodging-house 
in Hatton Garden, where I paid just threo shillings a week for 
a bedroom, if that could be called a room which was rather a 
box, divided from a dozen others by partitions of seven or eight 
feet in height. I had, besides, the use of a common room, 
with light and fire, and the use of a kitchen for cooking my 
own victuals, if I required any, presided over by an old man, 
who was rather dirtier than necessity could justify, or the 
amount of assistance he rendered could excuse. But I man- 
aged to avoid this region of the establishment, by both break- 
fasting and dining in eating-houses, of which I soon found out 
the best and cheapest. It is amazing upon how little a man 


158 


ADELA CATHCART. 


with a good constitution, a good conscience, and an object, can 
live in London. I lived and throve. My bedroom, though as 
small as it could possibly have been, was clean, with all its 
appointments ; and, for a penny a week additional, I had the use 
of a few newspapers. The only luxuries I indulged in, besides 
one pipe of bird’s-eye a day, were writing verses, and teaching 
myself German. This last led to some little extravagance, for 
I soon came to buy German books at the bookstalls ; but I 
thought the church would get the advantage of it by and by, 
and so I justified myself in it. I translated a great many 
German songs. Now and then you will hear my brother sing 
one of them. He was the only one of my family who knew 
where I lived. The others addressed their letters to my cousin’s 
place of business. My father was dreadfully cut up at my 
desertion of the church, as he considered it. But I told my 
brother the whole story, and he went home, as he declared, 
prouder of his big brother than if he had been made a bishop 
of. I believe he soon comforted the dear old man, by helping 
him to see the matter in its true light, and not one word of 
reproach did I ever receive from his lips or his pen. He did 
his best likewise to keep the whole affair a secret. 

“ But a thousand pounds, with interest, was a dreadful sum. 
However, I paid the interest and more than fifty pounds of the 
principal the first year. One good thing was, I had plenty of 
clothes, and so could go a long time without becoming too 
shabby for business. 1 repaired them myself. I brushed my 
own boots. Occasionally I washed my own collars. 

u But it was rather dreadful to think of the years that must 
pass before I could be clear, before I could marry Lizzie, 
before I could open my mouth again to utter truths which 
I now began to see, and which grew dearer to me than exist- 
ence itself. As to Lizzie, I comforted myself by thinking 
that it did not matter much whether we were married or not, 
— we loved each other, and that was all that made marriage 
itself a good thing, and we had the good thing as it was. We 
corresponded regularly, and I need not say that this took a 
great many hours from German and other luxuries, and made 
the things I did not like much easier to bear. 

“Iam not stoic enough to be able to say that the baseness 
and meanness of things about me gave me no discomfort. In 


ADELA CATHCAHT. 


15 & 


my father's house, I had been used to a little simple luxury, 
for he liked to be comfortable himself, and could not be so, 
unless he saw every one comfortable about him as well At 
college, likewise, I had not thwarted the tendency to self-in- 
dulgence, as my condition now but too plainly testified. It 
will be clear enough to you, Mr. Smith, that there must have 
been things connected with such a mode of life exceedingly 
distasteful to one who had the habits of a gentleman ; but it 
was not the circumstances, so much as the companions of my 
location, that bred me discomfort. The people who shared the 
same roof with me, I felt bound to acknowledge as so sharing, 
although at first it was difficult to know how to behave to them, 
and their conduct sometimes caused me excessive annoyance. 
They were of all births and breedings, but almost all of them, 
like myself, under a cloud. It was not much that I had to 
associate with them, but even while glancing at a paper before 
going up to my room, for I allowed myself no time for that at 
the office, I could not help occasionally hearing language which 
disgusted me to the backbone, and made me say to myself, as 
I went slowly up the stairs, 1 My sins have found me out, and 
I am in hell for them . 5 Then, as I sat on the side of my bed 
in my stall, the vision of the past would come before me in all 
its beauty, — the Westland Woods, the open country, the com- 
fortable abode, and, above all, the homely, gracious old church, 
with its atmosphere of ripe sacredness and age-long belief ; for 
now I looked upon that reading-desk, and that pulpit, with new 
eyes and new thoughts, as I will presently try to show you. 
I had not really lost them, in the sense in which I regarded 
them now, as types of a region of possibly noble work ; but 
even with their old aspect, they would have seemed more 
honorable than this constant labor in figures from morning to 
night, till I thought sometimes that the depth of punishment 
would be to have to reckon to all eternity. But, as I have 
said, I had my consolations, — Lizzie's letters, my books, a 
walk to Hampstead Heath on a holiday, an occasional peep in- 
to Goethe or Schiller on a bright day in St. Lawrence Pountney 
ctiurch-yard, to which I managed to get admittance, and — will 
you believe it ? — going to a city church on Sundays. More of 
this anon. So that, if I was in hell for my sins, it was, at 
least, not one of Swedenborg’s hells. Never before did I 


160 


ADELA CATHCART. 


understand what yet I had always considered one of the most 
exquisite sonnets I knew : — 

s: M> 'inter, that dost deserve thy mournfulness, 

Call thyself punished, call the earth thy hell ; 

Say, ‘ God is angry, and I earned it well, 

I would not have him smile and not redress.’ 

Say this, and straightway all thy grief grows less. 

‘ God rules at least, I find, as prophets tell, 

And proves it in this prison.’ Straight thy cell 
Smiles with an unsuspected loveliness. 

A prison, — and yet from door and window -bar 
I catch a thousand breaths of his sweet air; 

Even to me, his days and nights are fair ; 

He shows me many a flower, and many a star ; 

And though I mourn, and he is very far, 

He does not kill the hope that reaches there.’ ” 


“ Where did you get that wonderful sonnet?” I cried, 
hardly interrupting him, for when he came to the end of it he 
paused with a solemn pause. 

“ It is one of the stars of the higher heavens, which I spied 
through my prison bars.” 

“ Will you give me a copy of it ? ” 

11 With all my heart. It has never been in print.” 

“ Then your star reminds me of that quaint simile of Henry 
Vaughan : — 

“ ‘If a star were confined into a tomb, 

Her captive flames must needs burn there ; 

But when the hand that locked her up gives room, 

She’ll shine through all the sphere.’ ” 

u Ah, yes ; I know the poem. That is about the worst 
verse in it, though.” 

“ Quite true.” 

“ What a number of verses you know ! ” 

“ They stick to me somehow.” 

“ Is the sonnet your own ? ” 

“ My dear fellow, how could I speak in praise of it as I do, 
if it were my own ? I would say ‘ I wish it were ! ’ only that 
would be worse selfishness than coveting a man’s purse. No. 
It is not mine.” 

“Well, will you go on with your story, — if you will yet 
oblige me?” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


1G1 


u I will. But you will think it strange that I should be so 
communicative to one whose friendship I have so lately gained. ” 
“ I believe there is a fate in such things,” I answered. 

“ Well, I yield to it, — if I do not weary you? ” 

“ Go on. There is positively not the least danger of that.” 
“ Well, it was not to hell I was really sent, but to school, 
— and that not a fashionable boarding, or expensive public 
school, but a day-school like a Scotch parish school, — to 
learn the conditions and ways and thoughts of my brothers 
and sisters. 

“ I soon got over the disgust I felt at the coarseness of the 
men I met. Indeed, I found amongst business gentlemen what 
affected me with the same kind of feeling, — only perhaps 
more profoundly, — a coarseness not of the social so much as 
of the spiritual nature; in a word, genuine selfishness; 
whereas this quality was rather less remarkable in those who 
had less to be selfish about. I do not say, therefore, that they 
had less of it. I soon saw that their profanity had chiefly a 
negative significance ; but it was long before I could get suffi- 
ciently accustomed to their vileness, their beastliness, — I beg 
the beasts’ pardon ! — to keep from leaving the room when a 
vein of that sort was opened. But I succeeded in schooling 
myself to bear it. 1 For,’ thought I, ‘ there must be some 
bond — some ascertainable and recognizable bond — between 
these men and me ; I mean some bond that might show 
itself as such to them and me.’ I found out, before long, 
that there was a tolerably broad and visible one. — nothing 
less than our human nature, recognized as such. For by 
degrees I came to give myself to know them. I sat and 
talked to them, smoked with them, gave them tobacco, 
lent them small moneys, made them an occasional tri- 
fling present of some article of dress, of which I had more 
than I wanted ; in short, gained their confidence. It was 
strange, but without any reproof from me, nothing more direct 
than simple silence, they soon ceased to utter a word that 
could offend me ; and, before long, I had heard many of their 
histories. And what stories they were ! Set any one to talk 
about himself, instead* of about other people, and you will 
have a seam of the precious mental metal opened up to you at 
once; only ore, most likely, that needs much smelting and 


162 


ADELA CATIICART. 


refining; or, it may be, not gold at all, but a metal which 
your mental alchemy may turn into gold. The one thing I 
learned was, that they and I were one ; that our hearts were 
the same. How often I exclaimed inwardly, as some new 
trait came to light, in the words, though without the general- 
izing scorn, of Shakespeare’s Timon, — ‘ More man ! ’ 
Sometimes I was seized with a kind of horror, beholding my 
own visage in the mirror -which some poor wretch’s story held up 
to me, — distorted perhaps by the flaws in the glass, but still 
mine. I saw myself in other circumstances and under other 
influences, and felt sometimes, for a moment, as if I had been 
guilty of the very deeds, more often of the very neglects, 
that had brought my companion to misery. I felt, in the 
most solemn moods of reflection, that I might have done all 
that, and become all that. I saw but myself, over and over 
again, with wondrous variations, none sufficient to destroy the 
identity. And I said to myself that, if I was so like them in 
all that was undesirable, it must be possible for them to become 
like me in all, whatever it was, that rendered me in any way 
superior to them. 

“ But wherein did this superiority consist? I saw that, 
whatever it was, I had little praise in it. I said, ‘ What 
have I done to be better than I found myself? If Lizzie had 
not taken me in hand, I should not have done even this. 
What an effort it would need for one of these really to begin 
to rouse and raise himself! And what have I done to rouse 
and raise myself, to whom it would surely be easier ? And 
how can I hope to help them to rise till I have risen myself? 
It is not enough to be above them ; only by the strength of 
my own rising can I help to raise them, for we are bound to- 
gether by one cord. Then how shall I rise? Whose uprising 
shall lift me ? On what cords shall I lay hold to be heaved 
out of the pit?’ And then I thought 'd Jie story of the 
Lord of men, who arose by his own might, not alone from the 
body-tomb, but from all the death and despair of humanity, 
and lifted with him our race placing their tomb beneath their 
feet, and them in the sunny hope that belongs to them, and 
for which they were created, — the air of their jwn freedom. 

But,’ I said to myself, ‘ this is ideal, and belongs to the race. 
Before it comes true for the race, it must be done in the indi- 


ADELA CATIICART. 


163 


vidual. If it be true for the race, it can only be through its 
being attainable by the individual. There must be something 
ill the story belonging to the individual. I will look at the 
individual Christ, and see how he arose.’ 

u And then I saw that the Lord himself was clasped in the 
love of the Father ; that it was in the power of mighty com- 
munion that the daily obedience was done ; that besides the 
outward story of his devotion to men, there was the inward 
story, — actually revealed to us men, marvellous as that is, — 
the inward story of his devotion to his Father ; of his speech 
to him ; of his upward look ; of his delight in giving up to 
him. And the answer to his prayers comes out in hi3 deeds. 
As Novalis says : 1 In solitude the heavenly heart unfolded 
itself to a flower-chalice of almighty love, turned towards the 
high face of the Father.’ I saw that it was in virtue of this, 
that, again to use the words of Novalis, 1 the mystery was un- 
sealed. Heavenly spirits heaved the aged stone from the gloomy 
grave ; angels sat by the slumberer, bodied forth, in delicate 
forms, from his dreams. Waking in new God-glories, he 
clomb the height of the new-born world ; buried with his own 
hand the old corpse in the forsaken cavern, and laid thereon, 
with almighty arm, the stone which no might raises again. Yet 
weep thy beloved, tears of joy, and of boundless thanks at thy 
grave ; still ever, with fearful gladness, behold thee arisen, 
and themselves with thee.’ If then he is the captain of our 
salvation, the head of the body of the human church, I must 
rise by partaking in my degree of his food, by doing in my 
degree his work. I fell on my knees and I prayed to the 
Father. I rose, and, bethinking me of the words of the Son, I 
went and tried to do them. I need say no more to you. A 
new life awoke in me from that hour, feeble and dim, but yet 
life ; and often as it has stopped growing, that has always been 
my own fault. Where it will end, thank God ! I cannot tell. 
But existence is an awful grandeur and delight. 

“ Then I understood the state of my fellow-men, with all 
their ignorance, and hate, and revenge ; some misled by pas- 
sion, some blinded by dulness, some turned monomaniacs from 
a fierce sense of injustice done them ; and I said, ‘ There is 
no way of helping them but by being good to them : and making 
them trust me. But in every one of them there lies a secre* 


164 


ADELA CATHCART. 


chamber, to which God has access from behind by a hidden 
door ; while they know nothing of this chamber ; and the other 
door, towards their own consciousness, is hidden by darkness 
and wrong, and ruin of all kinds. Sometimes they become 
dimly aware that there must be such a door. Some of us 
search for it, find it, turn back aghast ; while God is standing 
behind the doer waiting to be found, and ready to hold forth 
the arms of eternal tenderness to him who will open and look. 
Some of us have torn the door open, and, lo ! there is the 
Father, at the heart of us, at the heart of all things.’ I saw 
that he was leading these men through dark ways of disap- 
pointment and misery, the cure of their own wrong-doing, to 
find this door and find him. But could nothing be done to 
help them, — to lead them ? They, too, must learn of Christ. 
Could they not be led to him? If he leads to the Father, 
could not man lead to him? True, he says that it is the lead- 
ing of the Father that brings to him ; for the Father is all 
in all ; he fills and rounds the cycle. But he leads by the 
hand of man. Then I said, 1 Is not this the work of the 
church ? ’ 

“ And with this new test, I went to one church after anoth- 
er. And the prayers were beautiful. And my soul was com- 
forted by them. And the troubles of the week sank back into 
the far distance, and God ruled in London city. But how 
could such as I thought of, love these prayers, or understand 
them? For them the voice of living man was needed. And 
surely the Spirit that dwelt in the church never intended to 
make less of the voice of a living man pleading with his fellow- 
men in his own voice, than the voice of many people pleading 
with God in the words which those who had gone to him had 
left behind them. If the Spirit be in the church, does it only 
pray ? Yet almost as often as a man stood up to preach, I 
knew again why Lizzie had paid no heed to me. All he said 
had nothing to do with me or my wants. And if not with 
these, how could they have any influence on the all but out- 
casts of the social order ? I justified Lizzie to the very full 
now ; and I took refuge from the inanity of the sermon in 
thinking about her faithfulness. And that faithfulness was far 
beyond anything I knew yet. 

“ And now there awoke in me an earnest longing after the 


ADELA CATIICART. 


165 


office I bad forsaken. Thoughts began to burn in me. and 
words to come unbidden, till sometimes I had almost to restrain 
myself from rising from the pew where I was seated, ascending 
the pulpit stairs, and requesting the man who had nothing to 
say, to walk down, and allow me, who had something to say, 
to take his place. Was this conceit? Considering what I 
was listening to, it could not have been great conceit at least. 
But I did restrain myself, for I thought an encounter with the 
police w T ould be unseemly, and my motives scarcely of weight 
in the court to which they would lead me.” 

Here Mr. Armstrong relieved himself and me with a good 
laugh. I say relieved me, for his speech had held me in a 
state of tension such as to be almost painful. 

“ But I looked to the future in hope,” he went on, 11 if 
ever I might be counted worthy, to resume the labor I had 
righteously abandoned; having had the rightness confirmed by 
the light I had received in carrying out the deed.” 

Ilis voice here sank as to a natural pause, and I thought he 
w r as going to end his story. 

u Tell me something more,” I said. 

11 Oh ! ” returned he, “ as far as story is concerned, the 
best of it is to come yet. About six months after I was fairly 
settled in London, I was riding in an omnibus, a rare enough 
accommodation with me, in the dusk of an afternoon. I was 
going out to Fulham to dine with my cousin, as I was some- 
times forced to do. He was a good-hearted man, but — in 
short, I did not find him interesting. I would have preferred 
talking to a man w T ho had barely escaped the gallows or the 
hulks. My cousin never did anything plainly wicked, and 
consequently never repented of anything. He thought no 
harm of being petty and unfair. He would not have taken a 
farthing that was not his own, but if he could get the better of 
you in an argument, he did not care by w r hat means. He 
would put a wrong meaning on your words, that he might 
triumph over you, knowing all the time it was not what you 
meant. He w r ould say, ‘ Words are words. I have nothing 
to do with your meanings. You may say you mean anything 
you like.’ 1 wish it had been his dissent that made him such. 
But I won’t say more about him, for I believe it is my chief 
fault, as to my profession, that I find commonplace people 


1G6 


ADELA CATIICAET. 


dreadfully uninteresting ; and I am afraid I don’t always give 
them quite fair play. I had to dine with him, and so I got 
into an omnibus going along the Strand. And I had not been 
long in it, before I began thinking about Lizzie. That was 
not very surprising. 

“ Next to me, nearer the top of the omnibus, sat a young 
woman, with a large brown-paper parcel on her lap. She 
dropped it, and I picked it up for her ; but seeing that it incom- 
moded her considerably I offered to hold it for her. She gave 
a kind of start when I addressed her, but allowed me to take 
the parcel. I could not see her face, because she was close to 
my side. But a strange feeling came over me, as if I was 
sitting next to Lizzie. I indulged in the fancy, not from any 
belief in it, only for the pleasure of it. But it grew to a great 
desire to see the young woman’s face, and find whether or not she 
was at all like Lizzie. I could not, however, succeed in getting 
a peep within her bonnet ; and so strong did the desire become, 
that, when the omnibus stopped at the circus, and she rose to 
get out. I got out first, without restoring the parcel, and stood 
to hand her out, and then give it back. Not yet could I see 
her face ; but she accepted my hand, and, with a thrill of 
amazement, I felt a pressure of mine, which surely could be 
nobody’s but Lizzie’s. And it was Lizzie, sure enough ! I 
kept the parcel ; she put her arm in mine, and we crossed the 
street together, without a word spoken. 

“ ‘ Lizzie ! ’ I said, when we got into a quieter part. 

“ ‘ Ralph ! ’ she said, and pressed closer to my side. 

“ ‘ How did you come here ? ’ 

“ ‘Ah ! I couldn’t escape you.’ 

“ ‘ How did you come here? ’ I repeated. 

“ ‘You did not think,’ she answered, with a low, musical 
laugh, ‘ that I was going to send you away to work, and take 
no share in it myself ! ’ 

“ And then out came the whole truth. As soon as I had 
left, she set about finding a situation, for she was very clever 
with her needle and scissors. Her mother could easily do 
without her, as her elder sister was at home ; and her absence 
would relieve their scanty means. She had been more fortu- 
nate than she could have hoped, and had found a good situa- 
tion with a dressmaker in Bond street. Her salary was not 


ADELA CATIICART. 


167 


large, but it was likely to increase, and she had nothing 
to pay for food or lodging; while, like myself, she was well 
provided with clothes, and had, besides, facilities for procuring 
more. And to make a long story as short as now may be, 
there she remained in her situation as long as I remained in 
mine ; and every quarter she brought me all she could spare 
of her salary for the Jew to gorge upon.’’ 

11 And you took it? ” I said, rather inadvertently. 

“ Took it ! Yes. I took it, — thankfully, as I would the 
blessing of Heaven. To have refused it would have argued me 
unworthy of her. We understood each other too well for any- 
thing else. She shortened my purgatory by a whole year, — 
my Lizzie ! It is over now ; but none of it will be over to all 
eternity. She made a man of me.” 

A pause followed, as was natural, and neither spoke for some 
moments. The ends of our cigars had been thrown away long 
ago, but I did not think of offering another. At length I said, 
for the sake of saying something : — 

“ And you met pretty often, I dare say ? ” 
u Every Sunday, at church.” 

11 Of all places, the place where you ought to have met.” 
u It was. We met in a quiet old city church, where there 
was nothing to attract us but the loneliness, the service, and 
the bones of Milton.” 

“ And when you had achieved your end — ” 

“ It was but a means to an end. I went at once to a certain 
bishop, told him the whole story, — not in quite such a lengthy 
shape as I have told it to you, — and begged him to reinstate me 
in my office.” 

u And what did he say ? ” 

“ Nothing. The good man did not venture upon many 
words. He held out his hand to me, shook mine warmly, and 
here 1 am, you see, curate of St. Thomas’, Purleybridge, and 
husband of Lizzie Payton. Am I not a fortunate fellow ? ” 

“ You are,” I said, with emphasis, rising to take my leave. 
“ But it is too bad of me to occupy so much of your time on 
a Saturday.” 

“ Don't be uneasy about that. I shall preach all the bet- 
ter for it.” 

As I passed the parlor door, it was open, and Lizzie was 


168 


ADELA CATHCART. 


busy with a baby’s frock. I think I should 'have known it 
for one, even if I had not been put on the scent. She nodded 
kindly to me as I passed out. I knew she was not one of the 
demonstrative sort, else I should have been troubled that she 
did not speak to me. I thought afterwards that she suspected, 
from the sustained sound of her husband’s voice, that he had 
been telling his own story ; and that therefore she preferred 
letting me go away without speaking to me that morning. 

“What a story for our club! ” thought I. “ Surely that 
would do Adela good now.” 

But of course I saw at once that it would not do. I could 
not for a moment wish that the curate should tell it. Yet I 
did wish Adela could know it. So I have written it now ; 
and there it is, as nearly as he told it as I could manage to 
record it. 

The next day was Sunday. And here is a part of the cu 
rate’s sermon : — 

“ My friends, I will give you a likeness, or a parable, which 
I think will help you to understand what is the matter with 
you all. For you all have something the matter with you; 
and most of you know this to be the case, though you may 
not know what is the matter. And those of you that feel 
nothing amiss are far the worst off. Indeed you are ; for how 
are things to be set right if you do not even know that there 
is anything to be set right ? There is the greatest danger of 
everything growing much worse, before you find out that any- 
thing is wrong. 

“ But now for my parable. 

“It is a cold winter forenoon, with the snow upon every- 
thing out of doors. The mother has gone out for the day, and 
the children are amusing themselves in the nursery, — pretend- 
ing to make such things as men make. But there is one among 
them who joins in their amusement only by fits and starts. 
He is pale and restless, yet inactive. His mother is away. 
True, he is not well. But he is not very unwell ; and if she 
were at home he would take his share in everything that w 7 as 
going on, with as much enjoyment as any of them. But as it 
is, his fretfulness and pettishness make no allowance for the 
wilfulness of his brothers and sisters ; and so the confusions 
they make in the room carry confusion into his heart and 


ADELA CATIICART. 


169 


brain, till at length a brighter noon entices the others out into 
the snow. 

“ Glad to be left alone, he seats himself by the fire and tries 
to read. But the book he was so delighted with yesterday 
is dull to-day. He looks up at the clock and sighs, and wish- 
es his mother would come home. Again he betakes himself 
to his book, and the story transports his imagination to the 
great icebergs on the polar sea. But the sunlight has left them, 
and they no longer gleam and glitter and sparkle, as if span- 
gled with all the jewels of the hot tropics, but shine cold and 
threatening as they tower over the ice-bound ship. He lays 
down the tale, and takes up a poem. But it, too, is frozen. 
The rhythm will not flow. And the sad feeling arises in his 
heart, that it is not so very beautiful, after all, as he had used 
to think it. 

“ £ Is there anything beautiful ? ’ says the poor boy at length, 
and wanders to the window. But the sun is under a cloud ; 
cold, white, and cheerless, like death, lies the wide world out 
of doors ; and the prints of his mother’s feet in the snow all 
point towards the village and away from home. His head 
aches, and he cannot eat his dinner. He creeps upstairs to 
his mother’s room. There the fire burns bright, and through 
the window falls a ray of sunlight. But the fire and the very 
sunlight are wintry and sad. £ Oh, when will mother be home ? ’ 
He lays himself in a corner amongst soft pillows, and rests 
his head ; but it is no nest for him, for the covering wings 
are not there. The bright-colored curtains look dull and gray ; 
and the clock on the chimney-piece will not hasten its pace 
one second, but is very monotonous and unfeeling. Poor child ! 
Is there any joy in the world ? Oh, yes ; but it always clings 
to the mother, and follows her about like a radiance, and she 
has taken it with her. Oh, w r hen will she be home ? The 
clock strikes as if it meant something, and then straightway 
goe3 on again with the old wearisome tic-tac. 

“He can hardly bear it. The fire burns up within ; day- 
tight goes down without ; the near world fades into darkness ; 
the far-off worlds brighten and come forth, and look from the 
cold sky into the warm room ; and the boy stares at them from 
the couch, and watches the motion of one of them, like the 
flight of a great golden beetle, against the divisions of the win- 


170 


ADELA CATHCART. 


dow-frame. Of this, too. he grows weary. Everything around 
him has lost its interest. Even the fire, which is like the soul of 
the room, within whose depths he has so often watched for strange 
forms and images of beauty and terror, has ceased to attract 
his tired eyes. He turns his back to it, and sees only its flick- 
erings cn the walls. To any one else, looking in from the 
cold, frosty night, the room would appear the very picture of 
afternoon comfort and warmth ; and he, if he wera descried 
thu3 nestling in its softest, warmest nook, would be counted a 
blessed child, without care, without fear, made for enjoyment, 
and knowing only fruition. But the mother is gone ; and as 
that flame-lighted room would appear to the passing eye, with- 
out the fire, and with but a single candle to thaw the surround- 
ing darkness and cold, so is that child’s heart without the pres- 
ence of the mother. 

“Worn out at length with loneliness and mental want, he 
closes his eyes, and, after the slow lapse of a few more empty 
moments, reopens them on the dusky ceiling and the gray twi- 
light window; no, — on two eyes near above him, and beam- 
ing upon him, the stars of a higher and holier heaven than 
that which still looks in through the unshaded windows. They 
are the eyes of the mother, looking closely and anxiously on 
her sick boy. 1 Mother ! mother ! ; His arms cling around her 
neck, and pull down her face to his. 

“ His head aches still, but the heart-ache is gone. When 
candles are brought, and the chill night is shut out of doors 
and windows, and the children are all gathered around the tea- 
table, laughing and happy, no one is happier, though he does 
not laugh, than the sick child, w T ho lies on the couch and looks 
at his mother. Everything around is full of interest and use, 
glorified by the radiation of her presence. Nothing can go 
wrong. The splendor returns to the tale and the poem. Sick- 
ness cannot make him wretched. Now, when he closes his eyes, 
his spirit dares to go forth wandering under the shining stars 
and above the sparkling snow ; and nothing is any more dull 
and unbeautiful. When night draws on, and he is laid in his 
bed, her voice sings him, and her hand soothes him, to sleep ; 
nor do her influences vanish when he forgets everything in 
sleep; for he wakes in the morning well and happy, made 


AD EL A CATHCA'AT. 


171 


whole by his faith in his mother. A power has gone forth from 
her love to heal and restore him. 

u Brothers, sisters ! do I not know your hearts from my 
own? — sick hearts, which nothing can restore to health and 
joy but the presence of Him who is Father and Mother both 
in one. Sunshine is not gladness, because you see Him not. 
The stars are far away, because He is not near ; and the flow- 
ers, the smiles of old Earth, do not make you smile, because, 
although, thank God ! you cannot get rid of the child's need, 
you have forgotten what it is the need of. The winter is dreary 
and dull, because, although you have the homeliest of homes, 
the warmest of shelters, the safest of nests to creep into and 
rest, — though the most cheerful of fires is blazing for you, 
and a table is spread, waiting to refresh your frozen and weary 
hearts, — you have forgot the way thither, and will not be trou- 
bled to ask the way ; you shiver with the cold and hunger, 
rather than arise and say, ‘ I will go to my Father ; ’ you will 
die in the storm rather than fight the storm ; you will lie down 
in the snow rather than tread it under foot. The heart with- 
in you cries out for something, and you let it cry. It is cry- 
ing for its God, — for its father and mother and home. And 
all the world will look dull and gray, — and if it does not look 
so now, the day will come when it must look so, — till your 
heart is satisfied and quieted with the known presence of Him 
in whom we live and move and have our being.” 


CHAPTER X. 

THE SHADOWS. 

It was again my turn to read. I opened my manuscript, 
and had just opened my mouth as well, when I was arrested for a 
moment. For, happening to glance to the other side of the room, 
I saw that Percy had thrown himself at full length on a couch, 
opposite to that on which Adela was seated, and was watching 
her face with all his eyes. But his look did not express love 


172 


ADELA CATHCART. 


bo much as jealousy. Indeed, I had seen small sign of his be- 
ing attached to her. If she had encouraged him, which cer- 
tainly she did not, I dare say his love might have come out ; 
but I presume that he had been comfortably content until now, 
when perhaps some remark of his mother had made him fear a 
rival. Mischief of some sort was evidently brewing. A 
human cloud, surcharging itself with electric fire, lay swelling 
on the horizon of our little assembly ; but I did not anticipate 
much danger from any storm that could break from such a 
quarter. I believed that as far as my good friend, the colonel, 
was concerned, Adela might at least refuse whom she pleased. 
Whether she might find herself at equal liberty to choose 
-whom she pleased was a question that I was unprepared to 
answer. And I could not think about it now. I had to read. 
So I gave out the title, and went on : — 

“THE SHADOWS. 

“ Old Ralph Rinkleham made his living by comic sketches, 
and all but lost it again by tragic poems. So he was just the 
man to be chosen king of the fairies, for in Fairy-land the 
sovereignty is elective.” 

“ But, uncle,” interrupted Adela, “you said it was not to 
be a fairy-tale.” 

“Well, I don’t think you will call it one, when you have 
heard it,” I answered. “ But 1 am not particular as to 
names. The fairies have not much to do with it anyhow.” 

“I beg your pardon, uncle,” rejoined my niece; and I 
went on. 

“They did not mean to insist on his residence; for they 
needed his presence only on special occasions. But they must 
get hold of him somehow, first of all, in order to make him 
king. Once he was crowned, they could get him as often as 
they pleased ; but, before this ceremony, there was a difficulty. 
For it is only between life and death that the fairies have 
power over grown-up mortals, and can carry them off to their 
country. So they had to watch for an opportunity. 

“Nor had they to wait long. For old Ralph was taken 


ADELA CATHCART. 


173 


dreadfully ill ; and while hovering between life and death they 
carried him off, and crowned him king of Fairy-land. But 
after he was crowned, it w r as no wonder, considering the state 
of his health, that he should not be able to sit quite upright 
on the throne of Fairy-land ; or that, in consequence, all the 
gnomes and goblins, and ugly, cruel things that live in the 
holes and corners of the kingdom, should take advantage of 
his condition, and run quite wild, playing him, king as he was, 
all sorts of tricks ; crowding about his throne, climbing up 
the steps, and actually scrambling and quarrelling like mice 
about his ears and eyes, so that he could see and think 
of nothing else. But I am not going to tell anything more 
about this part of hi3 adventures just at present. By strong 
and sustained efforts, he succeeded, after much trouble and 
suffering, in reducing his rebellious subjects to order. They 
all vanished to their respective holes and corners ; and King 
Ralph, coming to himself, found himself in his bed, half 
propped up with pillows. 

u But the room was full of dark creatures, which gambolled 
about in the firelight in such a strange, huge, but noiseless 
fashion, that he thought at first that some of his rebellious 
goblins had not been subdued with the rest, and had followed 
him beyond the bounds of Fairy-land into his own private 
house in London. How else could these mad, grotesque hip- 
popotamus-calves make their ugly appearance in Ralph Rink- 
elmann's bedroom? But he soon found out, that, although 
they were like the underground goblins, they were very dif- 
ferent as well, and would require quite different treatment. He 
felt convinced that they were his subjects too, but that he must 
have overlooked them somehow at his late coronation, — if 
indeed they had been present ; for he could not recollect that 
he had seen anything just like them before. He resolved, 
therefore, to pay particular attention to their habits, ways, and 
characters; else lie saw plainly that they would soon be too 
much for him ; as indeed this intrusion into his chamber, where 
Mrs. Rinkelmann, who must be queen if he was king, sat taking 
some tea by the fireside, plainly indicated. But she, per- 
ceiving that he was looking about him with a more composed 
expression than his face had worn for many days, started up, 
and came quickly and quietly to his side, and her face was 


174 


ADELA CATIICART. 


bright with gladness. Whereupon the fire burned up more 
cheerily and the figures became more composed and respectful 
in their behavior, retreating towards the wall like well -trained 
attendants. Then the king of Fairy-land had some tea and dry 
toast, and, leaning back on his pillows, nearly fell asleep ; but 
not quite, for he still watched the intruders. 

I ‘ Presently the queen left the room to give some of the 
young princes and princesses their tea ; and the fire burned 
lower ; and, behold, the figures grew as black and as mad in 
their gambols as ever ! Their favorite games seemed to be 
Hide and Seek ; Touch and Go; Grin and Vanish ; and 
many other such ; and all in the king’s bedchamber too ; so 
that it was quite alarming. It was almost as bad as if the 
house had been haunted by certain creatures, which shall be 
nameless in a fairy-story, because with them Fairy-land will 
not willingly have much to do. 

“ ‘ But it is a mercy that they have their slippers on ! ’ said 
the king to himself; for his head ached. 

u As he lay back, with his eyes half-shut and half-open, 
too tired to pay longer attention to their games, but, on the 
whole, considerably more amused than offended with the liber- 
ties they took, for they seemed good-natured creatures, and 
more frolicsome than positively ill-mannered, he became sudden- 
ly aware that two of them had stepped forward from the walls, 
upon which, after the manner of great spiders, most of them 
preferred sprawling, and now stood in the middle of the floor, 
at the foot of his majesty's bed, becking, and bowing, and 
ducking in the most grotesquely obsequious manner; while 
every now and then they turned solemnly round upon one heel, 
evidently considering that motion the highest token of homage 
they could show. 

“ ‘ What do you want? ’ said the king. 

“ 1 That it may please your majesty to be better acquainted 
with us,’ answered they. 1 We are your majesty’s subjects.’ 

“ ‘I know you are; I shall be most happy,’ answered the 
king. 

II c We are not what your majesty takes us for, though. We 
are not so foolish as your majesty thinks us.’ 

“ ‘ It is impossible to take you for anything that I know of,’ 
rejoined the king, who wished to make them talk, and said 


ADELA CATIICART. 


175 


whatever came uppermost ; — ‘for soldiers, sailors, or any- 
thing ; you will not stand still long enough. I suppose you 
really belong to the fire-brigade; at least, you keep putting 
its light out . 5 

“ ‘ Don’t jest, please your majesty . 5 And as they said the 
words, for they both spoke at once throughout the interview, 
they performed a grave somerset towards the king. 

“ ‘ Not jest ! 5 retorted he ; ‘ and with you ? Why, you do 
nothing but jest. What are you ? 5 

“ ‘The Shadows sire. And when we do jest, sire, we al- 
ways jest in earnest. But perhaps your majesty does not see 
us distinctly.’ 

“ ‘ I see you perfectly well,’ replied the king. 

“ ‘Permit me, however,’ rejoined one of the Shadows; and 
as he spoke, he approached the king, and, lifting a dark fore- 
finger, drew it lightly, but carefully, across the ridge of his 
forehead, from temple to temple. The king felt the soft glid- 
ing touch go, like water, into every hollow, and over the top 
of every height of that mountain-chain of thought. He had 
involuntarily closed his eyes during the operation, and when 
he unclosed them again, as soon as the finger was withdrawn, 
he found that they were opened in more senses than one. The 
room appeared to have extended itself on all sides, till he could 
not exactly see where the walls were ; and all about it stood 
the Shadows motionless. They were tall and solemn ; rather 
awful, indeed, in their appearance, notwithstanding many re- 
markable traits of grotesqueness, looking, in fact, just like the 
pictures of Puritans drawn by Cavaliers, with long arms, and 
very long, thin legs, from which hung large, loose feet, while 
in their countenances length of chin and nose predominated. 
The solemnity of their mien, however, overcame all the oddity 
of their form, so that they were very eerie indeed to look at, 
dressed as they all were in funereal black. But a single glance 
was all that the king was allowed to have ; for the former 
opeiator waved his dusky palm across his vision, and once more 
the king saw only the fire-lighted walls, and dark shapes flick- 
ering about upon them. The two who had spoken for the rest 
seemed likewise to have vanished. But at last the king dis- 
covered them, standing one on each side of the fireplace. They 
kept close to the chimney-wall, and talked to each other across 


176 


ADELA CATIICART. 


the length of the chimney-piece ; thus avoiding the direct rays 
of the fire, which, though light is necessary to their appear- 
ing to human eyes, do not agree with them at all, — much less 
give birth to them, as the king was soon to learn. After a 
few minutes, they again approached the bed, and spoke thus : — - 
u 1 It is now getting dark, please your majesty. We mean 
— out of doors in the snow. Your majesty may see, from 
where he is lying, the cold light of its great winding-sheet, — 
a famous carpet for the Shadows to dance upon, your majesty. 
All our brothers and sisters will be at church now, before go- 
ing to their night’s work.’ 

“ ‘ Do they always go to church before they go to work? ’ 
11 1 They always go to church first.’ 
u 1 Where is it?’ 

u 1 In Iceland. Would your majesty like to see it ? 7 
u 1 How can I go and see it, when, as you know very well, 
I am ill in bed ? Besides I should be sure to take cold in a 
frosty night like this, even if I put on the blankets, and took 
the feather-bed for a muff.’ 

“ A sort of quivering passed over their faces, which seemed 
to be their mode of laughing. The whole shape of the face 
shook and fluctuated as if it had been some dark fluid, till, by 
slow degrees of gathering calm, it settled into its former rest. 
Then one of them drew aside the curtains of the bed, and, the 
window-curtains not having been yet drawn, the king beheld 
the white glimmering night outside, struggling with the heaps 
of darkness that tried to quench it ; and the heavens full of 
stars, flashing and sparkling like live jewels. The other Shad- 
ow went towards the fire and vanished in it. 

“ Scores of Shadows immediately began an insane dance all 
about the room ; disappearing, one after the other, through the 
uncovered window, and gliding darkly away over the face of 
the white snow ; for the window looked at once on a field of 
enow. In a few moments, the room was quite cleared of them ; 
but, instead of being relieved by their absence, the king felt 
immediately as if he were in a dead-house, and could hardly 
breathe for the sense of emptiness and desolation that fell 
upon ‘him. But as he lay looking out on the snow, which 
stretched blank and wide before him, he spied in the distance 
a long dark line, which drew nearer and nearer, and showed 


ADELA CATHCART. 


177 


itself at last to be all the Shadows, walking in a double row, 
and carrying in the midst of them something like a bier. They 
vanished under the window, but soon reappeared, having some- 
how climbed up the wall of the house ; for they entered in 
perfect order by the window, as if melting through the trans- 
parency of the glass. 

“ They still carried the bier or litter. It was covered with 
richest furs, and skins of gorgeous wild beasts, whose eyes 
were replaced by sapphires and emeralds, that glittered and 
gleamed in the fire and snow light. The outermost skin 
sparkled with frost, but the inside ones were soft and warm 
and dry as the down under a swan’s wing. The Shadows ap- 
proached the bed, and set the litter upon it. Then a number 
of them brought a huge fur-robe, and, wrapping it round the 
king, laid him on the litter in the midst of the furs. Nothing 
could be more gentle and respectful than the way in which they 
moved him ; and he never thought of refusing to go. Then 
they put something on his head, and, lifting the litter, carried 
him once round the room, to fall into order. As he passed the 
mirror, he saw that he was covered with royal ermine, and 
that his head wore a wonderful crown, — of gold set with none 
but red stones : rubies and carbuncles and garnets, and others 
whose names he could not tell, glowed gloriously around his 
head, like the salamandrine essence of all the Christmas fires 
over the world. A sceptre lay beside him, — a rod of ebony, 
surmounted by a cone-shaped diamond, which, cut in a hundred 
facets, flashed all the hues of the rainbow, and threw colored 
gleams on every side, that looked like shadows more ethereal 
than those that bore him. Then the Shadows rose gently to 
the window, passed through it, and, sinking slowly upon the 
field of outstretched snow, commenced anordeily gliding rather 
than march along the frozen surface. They took it by turns 
to bear the king, as they sped, with the swiftness of thought, in 
a straight line towards the north. The pole-star rose above 
their heads with visible rapidity ; for indeed they moved quite 
as fast as sad thoughts, though not with all the speed of happy 
desires. England and Scotland slid past the litter of the king 
of the Shadows. Over rivers and lakes they skimmed and 
glided. They climbed the high mountains, and crossed the 
valleys with an unfelt bound ; tiil they came to John-o’-Groat’a 


178 


ADELA CATHCART. 


house and the northern sea. The sea was not frozen ; for all 
the stars shone as clear out of the deeps below as they shone 
out of the deeps above ; and as the bearers slid along the blue- 
gray surface, with never a furrow in their track, so clear was 
the water beneath, that the king saw neither surface, bottom, 
nor substance to it, and seemed to be gliding only through the 
blue sphere of heaven, with the stars above him, and the stars 
below him, and between the stars and him nothing but an empti- 
ness, where, for the first time in his life, his soul felt that it 
had room enough. 

“At length they reached the rocky shores of Iceland, where 
they landed, still pursuing their journey. All this time the 
king felt no cold ; for the red stones in his crown kept him 
warm, and the emerald and sapphire eyes of the wild beasts 
kept the frosts from settling upon his litter. 

“ Oftentimes upon their way, they had to pass through 
forests, caverns, and rock-shadowed paths, where it was so dark 
that at first the king feared he would lose his Shadows alto- 
gether. But as soon as they entered such places, the diamond 
in his sceptre began to shine and glow and flash, sending out 
streams of light of all the colors that painter’s soul could 
dream of; in which light the Shadows grew livelier and 
stronger than ever, speeding through the dark ways with an 
all but blinding swiftness. In the light of the diamond, too, 
some of their forms became more simple and human, while 
others seemed only to break out into a yet more untamable 
absurdity. Once, as they passed through a cave, the king act- 
ually saw some of their eyes, — strange shadow-eyes ; he had 
never seen any of their eyes before. But at the same moment 
when he saw their eyes, he knew their faces too, for they turned 
them full upon him for an instant ; and the other Shadows, 
catching sight of these, shrank and shivered, and nearly van- 
ished. Lovely faces they were ; but the king was very thought- 
ful after he saw them, and continued rather troubled all the 
rest of the journey. He could not account for those faces 
being there, and the faces of Shadows too, with living eyes.” 

“ What does that mean ? ” asked Adela. 

And I am rather ashamed to say that I could only answer, 
u I am not sure,” and make haste to go on again. 


ADELA CATIICART. 


179 


u At last they climbed up the bed of a little stream, and 
then passing through a narrow rocky defile, came out suddenly 
upon the side of a mountain, overlooking a blue frozen lake 
in the very heart of mighty hills. Overhead the aurora 
borealis was shivering and flashing like a battle of ten thou- 
sand spears. Underneath, its beams passed faintly over the 
blue ice and the sides of the snow-clad mountains, whose tops 
shut up like huge icicles all about, with here and there a star 
sparkling on the very tip of one. But as the northern lights 
in the sky above, so wavered and quivered, and shot hither 
and thither, the Shadows on the surface of the lake below ; 
now gathering groups, and now shivering asunder ; now cov- 
ering the whole surface of the lake, and anon condensed into 
one dark knot in the centre. Every here and there on the 
white mountains, might be seen two or three shooting away 
towards the tops, and vanishing beyond them. Their number 
was gradually, though hardly visibly, diminishing. 

“ 1 Please your majesty,’ said the Shadows, ‘this is our 
church, — the Church of the Shadows.’ 

“ And so saying the king’s body-guard set down the litter 
upon a rock, and mingled with the multitudes below. They 
soon returned, however, and boro the king down into the mid- 
dle of the lake. All the Shadows came crowding round him, 
respectfully but fearlessly; and sure never such a grotesque 
assembly revealed itself before to mortal eyes. The king had 
seen all kinds of gnomes, goblins, and kobolds, at his corona- 
tion ; but they were quite rectilinear figures, compared with 
the insane lawlessness of form in which the Shadows rejoiced ; 
and the wildest gambols of the former were orderly dances of 
ceremony, beside the apparently aimless and wilful contortions 
of figure, and metamorphoses of shape, in which the latter in- 
dulged. They retained, however, all the time, to the surprise 
of the king, an identity, each of his own type, inexplicably 
perceptible through every change. Indeed, this preservation 
of the primary idea of each form was quite as wonderful as 
the bewildering and ridiculous alterations to which the form 
itself was every moment subjected. 

“ ‘ What are you ? ’ said the king, leaning on his elbow, and 
looking around him. 


180 


A DEI A CATHCART. 


u 1 The Shadows, jour majesty, ’ answered several voices at 
once. 

“ 1 What Shadows? ’ 

u 1 The human Shadows. The Shadows of men, and women, 
and their children.’ 

££ 1 Are you not the shadows of chairs, and tables, and poker, 
and tongs, just as well? 5 

“ At this question a strange jarring commotion went through 
the assembly with a shock. Several of the figures shot up as 
high as the aurora, but instantly settled down again to human 
size, as if overmastering their feelings, out of respect to him 
who had roused them. One who had bounded to the highest 
visible icy peak, and as suddenly returned, now elbowed his 
way through the rest, and made himself spokesman for them 
during the remaining part of the dialogue. 

“ 1 Excuse our agitation, your majesty,’ said he. 1 1 see 
your majesty has not yet thought proper to make himself ac- 
quainted with our nature and habits.’ 

“ 1 1 wish to do so now,’ replied the king. 

££ 1 We are the Shadows,’ repeated the Shadow, solemnly. 

“ 1 Well ? ’ said the king. 

££ £ We do not often appear to men.’ 

“ 1 Ha ! ’ said the king. 

11 1 We do not belong to the sunshine at all. We go through 
it unseen, and only by a passing chill do men recognize an un- 
known presence.’ 

£i £ Ha ! ’ said the king, again. 

“ £ It is only in the twilight of the fire, or when one man ot 
woman is alone with a single candle, or when any number of 
people are all feeling of the same thing at once, making them 
one, that we show ourselves, and the truth of things. 

“ £ Can that be true that loves the night? ’ said the king. 

“ 1 The darkness is the nurse of light,’ answered the Shadow. 

“ 1 Can that be true which mocks at forms? ’ said the king. 

“ £ Truth rides abroad in shapeless storms,’ answered tho 
Shadow. 

££ £ Ha ! ha ! ’ thought Ralph Rinkelmann, £ it rhymes. The 
Shadow caps my questions with his answers. — Very strange! ’ 
And he grew thoughtful again. 

“ The Shadow was the first to resume. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


181 


1 1 Please your majesty, may we present our petition ? ’ 

1 1 By all means,’ replied the king. 1 1 am not well enough 
to receive it in proper state.’ 

“ ‘ Never mind, your majesty. We do not care for much 
ceremony ; and indeed none of us are quite well as present 
The subject of our petition weighs upon us.’ 

u * Go on,’ said the king. 

u 1 Sire/ began the Shadow, ‘ our very existence is in dan- 
ger. The various sorts of artificial light, both in houses and 
in men, women, and children, threaten to end our being. The 
use and the disposition of gas-lights, especially high in the 
centres, blind the eyes by which alone we can be perceived. 
We are all but banished from towns. We are driven into vil- 
lages and lonely houses, chiefly old farm-houses, outef which 
even our friends the fairies are fast disappearing. We there- 
fore petition our king, by the power of his art, to restore us 
to our rights in the house itself, and in the hearts of its 
dwellers.’ 

“ ‘ But,’ said the king, ‘ you frighten the children.’ 

“‘Very seldom, your majesty; and then only for their 
good. We seldom seek to frighten anybody. We only want 
to make people silent and thoughtful ; to awe them a little, 
your majesty.’ 

“ ‘ You are much more likely to make them laugh,’ said the 
king. 

“ ‘ Are we? ’ said the Shadow. 

“ And, approaching the king one step, he stood quite still 
for a moment. The diamond of the king’s sceptre shot out a 
vivid flame of violet light, and the king stared at the Shadow 
in silence, and his lips quivered.” 

“ Now what does that mean? ” said Adela, again. 

IIow can I tell ? ” I answered, and went on : — 

• £ ‘ It is only,’ resumed the Shadow, ‘ when our thoughts are 
not fixed upon any particular object, that our bodies are subject 
to all the vagaries of elemental influences. Generally, amongst 
worldly men and frivolous women, we only attach ourselves to 
some article of furniture or of dress ; and they never doubt 
that we are mere foolish and vague results of the dashing of 


182 


ADELA CATIICART. 


the waves of the light against the solid forms of which their 
houses are full. We do not care to tell them the truth, for 
they would never see it. But let the worldly man — or the 
frivolous woman — and then — ’ 

“ At each of the pauses indicated, the mass of Shadows 
throbbed and heaved with emotion, but soon settled again into 
comparative stillness. Once more the Shadow addressed him- 
self to speak. But suddenly they all looked up, and the king, 
following their gaze, saw that the aurora had begun to pale. 

“ £ The moon is rising,’ said the Shadow. 1 As soon as she 
looks over the mountains into the valley, we must be gone, for 
we have plenty to do by the moon ; we are powerful in her 
light. But if your majesty will come here to-morrow night, 
your majesty may learn a great deal more about us, and judge 
for himself whether it be fit to accord our petition ; for then 
will be our grand annual assembly, in which we report to our 
chiefs the deeds we have attempted, and the good or bad suc- 
cess we have had.’ 

“ 1 If you send for me,’ replied the king, ‘ I will come.’ 

“ Ere the Shadow could reply, the tip of the moon’s cres- 
cent horn peeped up from behind an icy pinnacle, and one slen- 
der ray fell on the lake. It shone upon no Shadows. Ere 
the eye of the king could again seek the earth after behold- 
ing the first brightness of the moon's resurrection, they had 
vanished ; and the surface of the lake glittered cold and blue 
in the pale moonlight. 

“ There the king lay, alone in the midst of the frozen lake, 
with the moon staring at him. But at length he heard from 
somewhere a voice that he knew. 

“ 1 Will you take another cup of tea, dear? ’ said Mrs. Rin- 
kelmann ; and Ralph, coming slowly, to himself, found that he 
was lying in his own bed. 

“ ‘ Yes, I will,” he answered; 1 and rather a large piece of 
toast, if you please ; for I have been a long journey since I 
Haw you last.’ 

“ ‘ He has not come to himself quite,’ said Mrs. Rinkel- 
mann, between her and herself. 

“ ‘ You would be rather surprised,’ continued Ralph, * if I 
told you where I had been, and all about it.’ 


ADELA CATHCART. 


183 


‘ £ I dare say I should,’ responded his wife. 
r ‘ : Then I will tell you,’ rejoined Ralph. 

%i But, at that moment, a great Shadow bounced out of the 
fire with a single huge leap, and covered the whole room. Then 
it settled in one corner, and Ralph saw it shaking its fist at 
him from the end of a preposterous arm. So he took the hint, 
and held his peace. And it was as well for him. For I hap- 
pen to know something about the Shadows too ; and I know 
that if he had told his wife all about it just then, they would 
not have sent for him the following evening. 

u But as the king, after taking his tea and toast, lay and 
looked about him, the dancing shadows in his room seemed to 
him odder and more inexplicable than ever. The whole cham- 
ber was full of mystery. So it generally was, but now it was 
more mysterious than ever. After all that he had seen in the 
Shadow-church, his own room and its shadows were yet more 
wonderful and unintelligible than those. 

“ This made it the more likely that he had seen a true vis- 
ion ; for, instead of making common things look commonplace, 
as a false vision would have done, it made common things dis- 
close the wonderful that was in them. 

“ 1 The same applies to all true art,’ thought Ralph Rinkel- 
mann. 

“ The next afternoon, as the twilight was growing dusky, 
the king lay wondering whether or not the Shadows would 
fetch him again. He wanted very much to go, for he had en- 
joyed the journey exceedingly, and he longed, besides, to hear 
some of the Shadows tell their stories. But the darkness grew 
deeper and deeper, and the Shadows did not come. The cause 
was, that Mrs. Rinkelmann sat by the fire in the gloaming ; and 
they could not carry off the king while she was there. Some 
of them tried to frighten her away, by playing the oddest 
pranks on the walls, and floor, and ceiling; but altogether with- 
out effect ; the queen only smiled, for she had a good conscience. 
Suddenly, however, a dreadful scream was heard from the 
nursery, and Mrs. Rinkelmann rushed upstairs to see what 
was the matter. No sooner had she gone, than the two warders 
of the chimney-corners stepped out into the middle of the room, 
and said, in a low voice : — 

“ ‘ Is your majestj ready ? ’ 


134 


ADELA CATIICART. 


11 1 Have you no hearts ? ’ said the king ; 1 or are they as black 
as your faces ? Did you not hear the child scream ? I must 
know what is the matter with her before I go.’ 

u : Your majesty may keep his mind easy on that point,’ re- 
plied the warders. 1 We had tried everything we could think 
of, to get rid of her majesty the queen, but without effect. So 
a young madcap Shadow, half against the will of the older 
ones of us, slipped upstairs into the nursery ; and has, no doubt, 
succeeded in appalling the baby, for he is very lithe and long- 
legged. — Now, your majesty.’ 

“ ‘ I will have no such tricks played in my nursery,’ said 
the king, rather angrily. 1 You might put the child beside it- 
self.’ 

il 1 Then there would be twins, your majesty. And we rath- 
er like twins.’ 

“ ‘ None of your miserable jesting! You might put the 
child out of her wits.’ 

11 1 Impossible, sire ; for she has not got into them yet.’ 

l< ‘Go away,’ said the king. 

• ‘ ‘ Forgive us, your majesty. Really, it will do the child 
good ; for that Shadow will, all her life, be to her a symbol 
of what is ugly and bad. When she feels in danger of hat- 
ing or envying any one, that Shadow will come back to her 
mind, and make her shudder.’ 

“ 4 Very well,’ said the king. { I like that. Let us go.’ 

u The Shadows went through the same ceremonies and prep- 
arations as before , during which the young Shadow before- 
mentioned contrived to make such grimaces as kept the baby 
in terror, and the queen in the nursery, till all was ready. 
Then with a bound that doubled him up against the ceiling, and 
a kick of his legs six feet out behind him, he vanished through 
the nursery door, and reached the king’s bedchamber just in 
time to take his place with the last who were melting through 
the window in the rear of the litter, and settling down upon 
the snow beneath. Away they went, a gliding blackness over 
the white carpet, as before. And it was Christmas Eve. 

u When they came in sight of the mountain-lake, the king 
saw that it was crowded over its whole surface with a change- 
ful intermingling of Shadows. They were all talking and 
listening alternately, in pairs, trios, and groups of every size. 


ADELA CATIICART. 


185 


TIere and ther?, large companies were absorbed in attention to 
one elevated above the rest, not in a pulpit, or on a platform, 
but on the stilts of his own legs, elongated for the nonce. The 
aurora, right overhead, lighted up the lake and the sides of 
the mountains, by sending down from the zenith, nearly to the 
surface of the lake, great folded vapors, luminous with all 
the colors of a faint rainbow. 

“ Many, however, as the words were that passed on all sides, 
not a whisper of a sound reached the ears of the king ; their 
shadow speech could not enter his corporeal organs. One of 
his guides, however, seeing that the king wanted to hear and 
could not, went through a strange manipulation of his head 
and ears ; after which he could hear perfectly, though still 
only the voice to which, for the time, he directed his attention. 
This, however, was a great advantage, and one which the king 
longed to carry back with him to the world of men. 

“The king now discovered that this was not merely the 
church of the Shadows, but their news-exchange at the same 
time. For, as the Shadows have no writing or printing, the 
only way in which they can make each other acquainted with 
their doings and thinkings is to meet and talk at the -word- 
mart and parliament of shades. And as, in the world, people 
read their favorite authors, and listen to their favorite speakers, 
so here the Shadows seek their favorite Shadows, listen to their 
adventures, and hear generally what they have to say. 

“Feeling quite strong, the king rose and walked about amongst 
them, wrapped in his ermine robe, with his red crown on his 
head, and his diamond sceptre in his hand. Every group of 
Shadows to which he drew near ceased talking as soon as they 
saw him approach ; but at a nod they went on again directly, 
conversing and relating and commenting as if no one was there 
of other kind or of higher rank than themselves. So the king 
heard a good many stories, at some of which he laughed, and 
at some of which he cried. But if the stories that the Shad- 
ows told were printed, they w r ould make a book that no pub- 
lisher could produce fast enough to satisfy the buyers. I will 
record some of the things that the king heard, for he told them 
to me soon after. In fact, I was for some time his private sec- 
retary, and that is how I come to know all about his adven- 
tures. 


186 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ 1 1 made him confess before a week was over,’ said a gloomy 
old Shadow. 

“ ‘ But what was the good of that ? ’ said a pert young one ; 
1 that could not undo what was done.’ 

11 1 Yes, it might.’ 

11 ' What ! bring the dead to life ? ’ 

u 1 No ; but comfort the murderer. I could not bear to see 
the pitiable misery he was in. He was far happier with the 
rope round his neck than he was with the purse in his pocket. 
I saved him from killing himself too.’ 

1 1 1 How did you make him confess ? ’ 

“ ‘ Only by wallowing on the wall a little.’ 

“ 1 How could that make him tell ? ’ 

“ ‘ Hq knows.’ 

“ He was silent ; and the king turned to another. 

11 ‘ I made a fashionable mother repent.’ 

‘ 1 1 How ? ’ broke from several voices, in whose sound was 
mingled a touch of incredulity. 

“ 1 Only by making a little coffin on the wall,’ was the reply. 

“ 1 Did the fashionable mother then confess? ’ 

“ 1 She had nothing more to confess than everybody knew.’ 

u 1 What did everybody know then? ’ 

“ ‘ That she might have been kissing a living child, when she 
followed a dead one to the grave. The next will fare better.” 

“ 1 I put a stop to a wedding,” said another. 

“ 1 Horrid shade ! ’ remarked a poetic imp. 

“ c How?’ said others ; ‘ tell us how.’ 

u 1 Only by throwing a darkness, as if from the branch of a 
sconce, over the forehead of a fair girl. They are not married 
yet, and I do not think they will be. But I loved the youth 
who loved her. How he started ! It was a revelation to him.’ 

“ 1 But did it not deceive him ? ’ 

“ * Quite the contrary.’ 

“ ‘ But it was only a shadow from the outside, not a shadow 
coming through from the soul of the girl.’ 

11 1 Yes. You may say so. But it was all that was wanted 
to let the meaning of her forehead come out, — yes, of her 
whole free, which had now and then, in the pauses of his pas- 
sion, perplexed the youth. All of it — curled nostrils, pouting 
lips, projecting chin — instantly fell into harmony with that 


ADELA catecart. 


187 


darkness between her eyebrows. The youth understood it in 
a moment, and went home miserable. And they’re not mar- 
ried yet’ 

II 1 1 caught a toper alone, over his magnum of port,’ said a 
very dark Shadow ; 1 and didn’t I give it him ! I made delir- 
ium tremens first ; and then I settled into a funeral, passing 
slowly along the whole of the dining-room wall. I gave him 
plenty of plumes and mourning coaches. And then I gave 
him a funeral service ; but I could not manage to make the 
surplice white, which was all the better for such a sinner. The 
wretch stared till his face passed from purple to gray, and 
actually left his fifth glass only, unfinished, and took refuge 
with his wife and children in the drawing-room, much to their 
surprise. I believe he actually drank a cup of tea ; and, although 
I have often looked in again, I have never seen him drinking, 
alone at least.’ 

u ‘ But does he drink less ? Have you done him any good ? ’ 
“ 1 1 hope so ; but I am sorry to say I can’t feel sure about 
it.’ 

u 1 Humph ! Humph ! Humph ! ’ grunted various Shadow 
throats, 

“ ‘ I had much fun once ! ’ cried another. 1 1 made such 
game of a young clergyman ! ’ 

u 1 You have no right to make game of any one.’ 

“ 1 Oh, yes, I have, — when it is for his good. He used to 
study hi3 sermons, — where do you think ? ’ 

“ ‘ In his study, of course.’ 
u 1 Yes and no. Guess again.’ 

“ 1 Out amongst the faces in the streets.’ 

“ ‘ Guess again.’ 

II I In still green places in the country ? ’ 

“ ‘ Guess again.’ 

il 1 In old books ? ’ 

11 1 Guess again.’ 

“ 1 No, no. Tell us.’ 

“ ‘ In the looking-glass. Ha! ha ! ha ! ’ 

“ ‘ He was fair game ; fair Shadow-game.’ 

“ ‘I thought so. And I made such fun of him one night 
on the wall ! He had sense enough to see that it was himself, 
and very like an ape. So he got ashamed, turned the mirror 


188 


ADELA CATIICART. 


with its face to the wall, and thought a little more about his 
people, and a little less about himself. I was very glad ; for, 
please your majesty,’ — and here the speaker turned towards 
the king, — ‘ we don’t like the creatures that live in the mirrors. 
You call them ghosts, don’t you ? ’ 

u Before the king could reply, another had commenced. But 
the mention of the clergyman made the king wish to hear one 
of the Shadow-sermons. So he turned him towards a long 
Shadow, who was preaching to a very quiet and listening crowd. 
He was just concluding his sermon : — 

“ ‘ Therefore, dear Shadows, it is the more needful that we 
love one another as much as we can, because that is not much. 
We have no excuse for not loving, as mortals have, for we do 
not die like them. I suppose it is the thought of that death 
that makes them hate so much. Then again, we go to sleep 
all day, most of us, and not in the night, as men do. And 
you know that we forget everything that happened the night 
before ; therefore, we ought to love well, for the love is short. 
Ah ! dear Shadow, whom I love now with all my shadowy 
soul, I shall not love thee to-morrow eve ; I shall not know 
thee ; I shall pass thee in the crowd and never dream that the 
Shadow whom I now love is near me then. Happy Shades ! 
for we only remember our tales until we have told them here, 
and then they vanish in the Shadow church-yard, where we 
bury only our dead selves. Ah ! brethren, who would be a 
man and remember? Who would be a man and weep? We 
ought indeed to love one another, for we alone inherit obliv- 
ion ; we alone are renewed with eternal birth ; we alone have 
no gathered weight of years. I will tell you the awful fate of 
one Shadow who rebelled against his nature, and sought to 
remember the past. He said, u I will remember this eve.” He 
fought with the genial influences of kindly sleep when the sun 
rose on the awful dead day of light ; and, although he could not 
keep quite awake, he dreamed of the foregone eve, and he never 
forgot his dream. Then he tried again the next night, and the 
next, and the next ; and he tempted another Shadow to try it 
with him. At last their awful fate overtook them ; and, instead 
of being Shadows any longer, they began to have shadows stick- 
ing to them ; and they thickened and thickened till they van- 
ished out of our world ; and they are now condemned to walk 


ADELA CATIICART. 


189 


the earth, a man and a woman, with death behind them, and 
memories within them Ah ! brother Shades ! let us love 
one another, for we shall soon forget. We are not men, but 
Shadows.’ 

u The king turned away, and pitied the poor Shadows far 
more than they pitied men. 

“ ‘ Oh ! how we played with a musician one night,'* exclaimed 
one of another group, to which the "king had directed a passing 
thought. He stopped to listen. ‘ Up and down we went, like 
the hammers and dampers on his piano. But he took his 
revenge on u3. For after he had watched us for half an hour 
*n the twilight, he rose and went to his instrument, and played 
a Shadow-dance that fixed us all in sound forever. Each could 
tell the very notes meant for him ; and as long as he played 
we could not stop, but went on dancing and dancing after the 
music, just as the magician — I mean the musician — pleased. 
And he punished us well ; for he nearly danced us all off our 
legs and out of shaoe, into tired heaps of collapsed and palpi- 
tating darkness. We won’t go near him for some time again, 
if we can only remember it. He had been very miserable all 
day, he was so poor ; and we could not think of any way of 
comforting him except making him laugh. We did not succeed, 
with our best efforts ; but it turned out better than we had ex- 
pected, after all ; for his Shadow-dance got him into notice, and 
lie is quite popular now, and making money fast. If he does 
not take care, we shall have other work to do with him by and 
by, poov fellow ! ’ 

“ ‘ I and some others did the same for a poor playwright 
once. He had a Christmas piece to write, and, not being an 
original genius, he could think of nothing that had not been 
done already twenty times. I saw the trouble he was in, and 
collecting a few stray Shadows, we acted in dumb show, of 
course, the funniest bit of nonsense we could think of ; and it 
was quite successful. The poor fellow watched every motion, 
roaring with laughter at us, and delight at the ideas we put 
into his head. He turned it all into words and scenes and 
actions ; and the piece came off “ with a success unprecedented 
in the annals of the stage ; ” — at least so said the reporter of 
the “Punny Palpitator.” ’ 


190 


ADELA CATHCART. 


‘Now don’t you try, uncle, there’s a dear, to make any 
fun; for you know you can’t. It’s always a failure,” said 
Adela, looking as mischievous as she could. “ You can only 
make people cry ; you can’t make them laugh. So don’t try 
it. It hurts my feelings dreadfully when you fail ; and gives 
me a pain in the back of ray neck besides.” 

I heard her with delight, but went on, saying : — 

“ I must read what I have written, you monkey ! ” 

u 1 But how long we have to look for a chance of doing 
anything worth doing ! ” said a long, thin, especially lugubrious 
Shadow. 1 1 have only done one deed worth telling, ever since 
we met last. But I am proud of that.’ 

“ 1 What was it? What was it ? ’ rose from twenty voices. 
u 1 1 crept into a dining-room, one twilight, soon after last 
Christmas day. I had been drawn thither by the glow of a 
bright fire through red window-curtains. At first I thought 
there was no one there, and was on the point of leaving the 
room, and going out again into the snowy street, when I sud- 
denly caught the sparkle of eyes, and saw that they belonged 
to a little boy who lay very still on a sofa. I crept into a 
dark corner by the sideboard, and watched him. He seemed 
very sad, and did nothing but stare into the fire. At last he 
sighed out, ‘ I wish mamma would come home.’ — 1 Poor boy ! ’ 
thought I; ‘ there is no help for that but mamma.’ Yet I 
would try to while away the time for him. So out of my 
corner I stretched a long Shadow arm, reaching all across the 
ceiling, and pretended to make a grab at him. He was 
rather frightened at first ; but he was a brave boy, and soon 
saw that it was all a joke. So w'hen I did it again, he made 
a clutch at me ; and then we had such fun ! For though he 
often sighed and wished mamma would come home, he always 
began again with me ; and on we went with the wildest game. 
At last his mother’s knock came to the door, and, starting up 
in delight, he rushed into the hall to meet her, and forgot all 
about poor black me. But I did not mind that in the least: 
for when I glided out after him into the hall, I was well re- 
paid for my trouble, by hearing his mother say to him, 

‘ Why, Charlie, my dear, you look ever so much better since 
I left you ! ’ At that moment I slipped through the closing 


ADELA CATHCART. 


191 


door, and, as I ran across the snow, I heard the mother say, 
1 What Shadow can that be, passing sc quickly ? ’ And Char- 
lie answered with a merry laugh, ‘ 0 mamma, I suppose it 
must be the funny Shadow that has been playing such games 
with me, all the time you were out.’ As soon as the door was 
shut, I crept along the wall, and looked in at the dining-room 
window. And I heard his mamma say, as she led him into 
the room, “ What an imagination the boy has ! ” Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Then she looked at him very earnestly for a minute, and the 
tears came in her eyes ; and, as she stooped down over him, I 
heard the sounds of a mingling kiss and sob.’ ” 

“ Ah, I thought so ! ” cried Adela, who espied, peeping, 
that I had this last tale on a separate slip of paper, — 1 1 1 
thought so. That is yours, Mr. Armstrong, and not uncle’s 
at all. He stole it out of your sermon.” 

“You are excessively troublesome to-night, Adela,” I re- 
joined. “ But I confess the theft.” 

“ He had quite a right to take what I had done with, Miss 
Cathcart,” said the curate; and once more I resumed. 

“ 1 1 always look for nurseries full of children,’ said 
another ; 1 and this winter I have been very fortunate. I am 
sure we belong especially to children. One evening, looking 
about in a great city, I saw through the window into a large 
nursery, where the odious gas had not yet been lighted. 
Round the fire sat a company of the most delightful children I 
had ever seen. They were waiting patiently for their tea. It 
was too good an opportunity to be lost. I hurried away, and, 
gathering together twenty of the best Shadows I could find, 
returned in a few moments to the nursery. There we began 
on the walls one of our best dances. To be sure it was mostly 
extemporized ; but I managed to keep it in harmony by sing- 
ing this song, which I made as we went on. Of course the 
children could not hear it ; they only saw the motions that 
answered to it. But with them they seemed to be very much 
delighted indeed, as I shall presently show you. This was 
the song : — 

'■* ‘ Swing, swang, swingle, swuff, 

Flicker, flacker, fling, fluff I 


192 


ADELA CATHCAHT. 


Thus we go, 

To and fro, 

Here and there. 

Everywhere, 

Born and bred ; 

Never dead, 

Only gone. 

On ! Come on ! 

Looming, glooming, 

Spreading, fuming, 

Shattering, scattering, 

Parting, darting. 

Settling, starting, 

All our life 
Is a strife, 

And a wearying for rest 
On the darkness’ friendly breast. 

Joining, splitting, 

Rising, sitting, 

Laughing, shaking. 

Sides all aching, 

Grumbling, grim and gruff, 
Swingle, swangle, swuff! 

Now a knot of darkness ; 

Now dissolved gloom; 

Now a pall of blackness 
Hiding all the room. 

Flicker, Sucker, Suff! 

Black and black enough! 

Dancing now like demons; 
Lying like the dead ; 

Gladly would we stop it, 

And go down to bed ! 

But our work we still must do, 
Shadow men, as well as you. 

Rooting, rising, shooting, 
Heaving, sinking, creeping; 
Hid in corners crooning; 
Splitting, poking, leaping, 
Gathering, towering, swooning. 
When we’re lurking, 

Yet we’re working, 

For our labor we must do, 
Shadow men, as well as you. 
Flicker, Sacker, Sing, Suff! 
Swing, swang, swingle, swuff! * 


u 4 How thick the Shadows are ! ? said one of the children, 
a thoughtful little girl 


ADELA CATHCART. 


193 


“ £ I wonder where they come from? ’ said a dreamy little 
boy. 

“ ‘ I think they grow out of the wall,’ answered the little 
girl ; £ for I have been watching them come ; first one and then 
another, and then a whole lot of them. I am sure they grow 
out of the walls.’ 

“ ‘Perhaps they have papas and mammas,’ said an older 
boy. with a smile. 

“‘Yes, yes; the doctor brings them in his pocket,’ said 
another consequential little maiden. 

“‘No; I’ll tell you,’ said the older boy. J They’re 
ghosts.’ 

“ ‘ But ghosts are white.’ 

“ 4 Oh, these have got black coming down the chimney. 

“ ‘ No,’ said a curious-looking, white-faced boy of fourteen, 
who had been reading by the firelight, and had stopped to 
hear the little ones talk; ‘ they’re body-ghosts; they’re not 
soul-ghosts.’ 

“ A silence followed, broken by the first, the dreamy-eyed 
boy, who said : — 

“ ‘ I hope they didn’t make me; ’ at which they all burst 
out laughing, just as the nurse brought in their tea. When 
she proceeded to light the gas, we vanished. 

“ ‘ I stopped a murder,’ cried another. 

“ ‘ How ? How ? How ? ’ 

“ ‘I will tell you. I had been lurking about a sick-room 
for some time, where a miser lay, apparently dying I did 
not like the place at all, but I felt as if I was wanted there. 
There were plenty of lurking-places about, for it was full of 
all sorts of old furniture, — especially cabinets, chests, and 
presses. I believe he had in that room every bit of the prop- 
erty he had spent a long life in gathering. And I knew he 
had lots of gold in those places ; for one night, when his nurse 
was away, he crept out of bed, mumbling and shaking, and 
managed to open one of his chests, though he nearly fell down 
with the effort. I was peeping over his shoulder, and such a 
gleam of gold fell upon me that it nearly killed me. But, 
hearing his nurse coming, he slammed the lid down, and I re- 
covered. I tried very hard, but I could not do him any good. 
For, although I made all sorts of shapes on the walls and ceil- 


194 


ADELA CATHCART. 


ing, representing evil deeds that lie had done, of which there 
were plenty to choose from, I could make no shapes on his 
brain or conscience. He had no eyes for anything but gold. 
And it so happened that his nurse had neither eyes nor heart 
for anything else either. 

11 1 One day as she was seated beside his bed, but where he 
could not see her, stirring some gruel in a basin, to cool it for 
him, I saw her take a little phial from her bosom, and I knew 
by the expression of her face both what it was and what she 
was going to do with it. Fortunately the cork was a little 
hard to get out, and this gave me one moment to think. 

“ 1 The room was so crowded with all sorts of things, that 
although there were no curtains on the four-post bed to hide 
from the miser the sight of his precious treasures, there was 
yet but one spot on the ceiling suitable for casting myself upon 
in the shape I wished to assume. And this spot was hard 
to reach. But I discovered that upon this very spot there was 
a square gleam of firelight thrown from a strange old 
dusty mirror that stood away in some corner, so I got in front 
of the fire, spied where the mirror was, threw myself upon it, 
and bounded from its face upon the square pool of dim light 
on the ceiling, assuming, as I passed, the shape of an old stoop- 
ing hag, pouring something from a phial into a basin. I made 
the handle of the spoon with my own nose, ha ! ha ! ’ 

u 1 And the Shadow-hand caressed the Shadow-tip of the 
Shadow-nose, before the Shadow-tongue resumed. 

“ 1 The old miser saw me. He would not taste the gruel 
that night, although his nurse coaxed and scolded till they were 
both weary. She pretended to taste it, and to think it very 
good ; and at last retired into a corner, and made as if she 
were eating it herself ; but I saw that she took good care to 
pour it all out.’ 

“ ‘ But she must either succeed, or starve him, at last.’ 

“ ‘ I will tell you.’ 

“ ‘ But,’ interposed another, ‘ he was not worth saving.’ 

“ 1 He might repent,’ said another more benevolent Shadow. 

“ ‘ No chance of that,’ returned the former. ‘ Misers never 
do. The love of money has less in it to cure itself than any 
other wickedness into which wretched men can fall. What a 


AD EL A C Ain CART. 


195 


mercy it is to be b)rn a Shadow ! Wickedness does not stick 
to us. What do we care for gold ! — Rubbish ! ’ 

“ 1 Amen ! Amen ! Amen ! ’ came from a hundred Shadow- 
voices. 

“ 1 You should have let her murder him, and so have had 
done with him.’ 

11 ‘And, besides, how was he to escape at last? He could 
never get rid of her, — could he ? ’ 

“ 1 1 was going to tell you,’ resumed the narrator, ‘ only you 
had so many Shadow-remarks to make, that you would not let 
me.’ 

“ ‘ Go on ; go on.’ 

“ ‘ There was a little grandchild who used to come and see 
him sometimes, — the only creature the miser cared for. Her 
mother was his daughter ; but the old man would never see 
her, because she had married against his will. Her husband 
was now dead, but he had not forgiven her yet. After the 
shadow he had seen, however, he said to himself, as he lay 
awake that night, — I saw the words on his face, — “ How 
shall I get rid of that old devil ? If I don’t eat I shall die. 
I wish little Mary would come to-morrow. Ah ! her mother 
would never serve me so, if I lived a hundred years more.” 
lie lay awake, thinking such things over and over again all 
night long, and I stood watching him from a dark corner ; till 
the dayspring came and shook me out. When I came back 
next night, the room was tidy and clean. His own daughter, 
a sad-faccd, still beautiful woman, sat by his bedside; and 
little Mary was curled up on the floor, by the fire, imitating 
us, by making queer shadows on the ceiling with her twisted 
hands. But she could not think how ever they got there. 
And no wonder, for I helped her to some very unaccountable 
ones.’ 

‘“I have a story about a grand-daughter, too,’ said another, 
the moment that speaker ceased. 

“‘Tell it. Tell it.’ 

“ ‘ Last Christmas day,’ he began, ‘ I and a troop of us set 
out in the twilight, to find some house where we could all have 
something to do ; for we had made up our minds to act to- 
gether. We tried several, but found objections to them all. 
At last we espied a large lonely country-house, and, hastening 


106 


ADELA CATHCART. 


to it, wo found great preparations making for the Christmas 
dinner. We rushed into it, scampered all over it, and made 
up our mind in a moment that it would do. We amused our- 
selves in the nursery first, where there were several children 
being dressed for dinner. We generally do go to the nursery 
first, your majesty. This time were especially charmed 
with a little girl about five years old, who clapped her hands 
and danced about with delight at the antics we performed; and 
we said we would do something for her if we had a chance. 
The company began to arrive ; and at every arrival we rushed 
to the hall, and cut wonderful capers of welcome. Between 
times, we scudded away to see how the dressing went on. 
One girl about eighteen was delightful. She dressed herself 
as if she did not care much about it, but could not help doing 
it prettily. When she took her last look of the phantom in 
the glass, she half smiled to it. But we do not like those 
creatures that come into the mirrors at all, your majesty. We 
don’t understand them. They are dreadful to us. She looked 
rather sad and pale, but very sweet and hopeful. We wanted 
to know all about her, and soon found out that she was a dis- 
tant relation and a great favorite of the gentleman of the 
house, an old man, with an expression of benevolence mingled 
with obstinacy and a deep shade of the tyrannical. We could 
not admire him much ; but we would not make up our minds 
all at once : Shadows never do. 

11 The dinner-bell rang, and down we hurried. The chil- 
dren all looked happy, and we were merry. There was one 
cross fellow among the servants waiting, and didn’t we plague 
him ! and didn’t we get fun out of him ! When he was bring- 
ing up dishes, we lay in wait for him at every corner, and 
sprung upon him from the floor, and from over the banisters, 
and down from the cornices. He started and stumbled and 
blundered about, so that his fellow-servants thought he was 
tipsy. Once he dropped a plate, and had to pick up the 
pieces, and hurry away with them. Didn’t we pursue him as 
he went! It was lucky for him his master did not see him; 
but we took care not to let him get into any real scrape, 
though his eyes were quite dazed with the dodging of the 
unaccountable Shadows. Sometimes he thought the walls 
were coming down upon him ; sometimes that the floor was 


ADELA CATIICART. 


197 


gaping to swallow him ; sometimes that he would be knocked 
in pieces by the hurrying to and fro, or be smothered in the 
black crowd. 

11 1 When the blazing plum-pudding was carried in, we made 
a perfect Shadow-carnival about it, dancing and mumming in 
the blue flames, like mad demons. And how the children 
screamed with delight ! 

“ £ The old gentleman, who was very fond of children, was 
laughing his heartiest laugh, when a loud knock came to the 

O O O' 

hall-door. The fair maiden started, turned paler, and then red 
as the Christmas fire. I saw it, and flung my hands across 
her face. She was very glad, and I know she said in her 
heart, “ You kind Shadow! ” which paid me well. Then I 
followed the rest into the hall, and found there a jolly, hand- 
some, brown-faced sailor, evidently a son of the house. The 
old man received him with tears in his eyes, and the children 
with shouts of joy. The maiden escaped in the confusion, 
just in time to save herself from fainting. We crowded about 
the lamp to hide her retreat, and nearly put it out. The but- 
ler could not get it to burn up before she had glided into her 
place again, delighted to find the room so dark. The sailor 
only had seen her go, and now he sat down beside her, and, 
without a word got hold of her hand in the gloom. But now 
we all scattered to the walls and the corners ; and the lamp 
blazed up again, and he let her hand go. 

“ c During the rest of the dinner the old man watched them 
both, and saw that there was something between them, and 
was very angry ; for he was an important man in his own 
estimation, — and they had never consulted him. The fact 
was, they had never known their own minds till the sailor had 
gone upon his last voyage ; and had learned each other's only 
this moment. We found out all this by watching them, and 
then talking together about it afterwards. The old gentleman 
saw, too, that his favorite, who was under such obligation to 
him for loving her so much, loved his son better than him ; 
and this made him so jealous, that he soon overshadowed the 
whole table with his morose looks and short answers. That 
kind of shadowing is very different from ours ; and the Christ- 
mas dessert grew so gloomy that we Shadows could not bear 
it, and were delighted when the ladies rose to go to the draw- 


198 


ADELA CATHCART. 


ing-room. The gentlemen would not stay behind the ladies, 
even for the sake of the well-known wine. So the moody 
host, notwithstanding his hospitality, was left alone at the 
table, in the great silent room. We followed the company 
upstairs to the drawing-room, and thence to the nursery for 
snap-dragon. While they were busy with this most shadowy 
of games, nearly all the Shadows crept downstairs again to 
the dining-room, where the old man still sat, gnawing the bone 
of his own selfishness. They crowded into the room, and by 
using every kind of expansion, — blowing themselves out like 
soap-bubbles, — they succeeded in heaping up the whole room 
with shade upon shade. They clustered thickest about the 
fire and the lamp, till at last they almost drowned them in 
hills of darkness. 

“ ‘ Before they had accomplished so much, the children 
tired with fun and frolic, were put to bed. But the little girl 
of five years old, with whom we had been so pleased when 
first we arrived, could not go to sleep. She had a little room 
of her own ; and I had watched her to bed, and now kept her 
awake by gambolling in the rays of the night-light. When 
her eyes were once fixed upon me, I took the shape of her 
grandfather, representing him on tbe wall, as he sat in his 
chair, with his head bent down, and his arms hanging listlessly 
by his sides. And the child remembered that that was just as 
she had seen him last ; for she had happened to peep in at the 
dining-room door, after all the rest had gone upstairs. “ What 
if he should be sitting there still,” thought she, “ all alone in 
the dark ! ” She scrambled out of bed and crept down. 

“ ‘Meantime the others had made the room below so dark 
that only the face and white hair of the old man could be dimly 
discerned in the shadowy crowd. For he had filled his own mind 
with shadows, which we Shadows wanted to draw out of him. 
Those shadows are very different from us, your majesty knows. 
He was thinking of all the disappointments he had had in life, 
and of all the ingratitude he had met with. He thought far 
more of the good he had done than the good others had got. 
“After all I have done for them,” said he, with a sigh of bit- 
terness, “not one of them cares a straw for me. My own 
children will be glad when I am gone ! ” At that instant he 
lifted up his eyes and saw, standing close by the door, a tiny 


ADELA CATIICAHT. 


199 


figure in a long night-gown. The door behind her was shut. 
It was my little friend, who had crept in noiselessly. A pang 
of icy fear shot to the old man’s heart ; but it melted away 
as fast, for we made a lane through us for a single ray from 
the fire to fill on the face of the little sprite; and he thought 
it was a child of his own that had died when just the age of 
her little niece, who now stood looking for her grandfather 
among the Shadows. He thought she had come out of her 
grave in the old darkness, to ask why her father was sitting 
alone on Christmas day. And he felt he had no answer to 
give his little ghost, but one would be ashamed for her to hear. 
But the little girl saw him now. She walked up to him with 
a childish stateliness, — stumbling once or twice on what seemed 
her long shroud. Pushing through the crowded Shadows, she 
reached him, climbed upon his knee, laid her little long-haired 
head on his shoulders, and said : “ Ganpa ! you goomy ? Isn’t 
it your Kismass day, too, ganpa? ” 

“ ‘ A new fount of love seemed to burst from the clay of 
the old man’s heart. lie clasped the child to his bosom, and 
wept. Then, without a word, he rose with her in his arms, 
carried her up to her room, and, laying her down in her bed, 
covered her up, kissed her sweet little mouth unconscious of 
reproof, and then went to the drawing-room. 

“ ‘ As soon as he entered, he saw the culprits in a quiet 
corner alone. He went up to them, took a hand of each, and, 
joining them in both his, said, “ God bless you!” Then he 
turned to the rest of the company, and “ Now,” said he, 
“let’s have a Christmas carol.” And well he might; for 
though I have paid many visits to the house, I have never 
seen him cross since ; and I am sure that must cost him a good 
deal of trouble.’ 

“ ‘ We have just come from a great palace, said another, 

1 where we knew there were many children, and where we 
thought to hear glad voices, and see royally merry looks. But as 
soon as we entered, we became aware that one mighty Shadow 
shrouded the whole ; and that Shadow deepened and deepened, 
till it gathered in darkness about the reposing form of a wise 
prince. When we saw him, we could move no more, but clung 
heavily to the walls, and by our stillness added to the sorrow 
of the hour. And when we saw the mother of her people weeping 


200 


ADELA CATHCART. 


with bowed head for the loss of him in whom she had trusted, 
we were seized with such a longing to be Shadows no longer, 
but winged angels, which are the white shadows cast in heaven 
from the Light of Light, so to gather around her, and hover 
over her with comforting, that we vanished from the walls and 
found ourselves floating high above the towers of the palace, 
where we met the angels on their way ; and knew that our 
service was not needed.’ 

“ By this time there was a glimmer of approaching moon- 
light, and the king began to see several of those stranger 
Shadows, with human faces and eyes, moving about amongst 
the crowd. lie knew at once that they did not belong to his 
dominion. They looked at him, and came near him, and passed 
slowly, but they never made any obeisance, or gave sign of 
homage. And what their eyes said to him, the king only could 
tell. And he did not tell. 

“ 1 What are those other Shadows that move through the 
crowd ? ’ said he to one of his subjects near him. 

“ The Shadow started, looked round, shivered slightly, and 
laid his finger on his lips. Then leading the king a little aside, 
and looking carefully about him once more : — 

“ c I do not know,’ said he, in a low tone, 1 what they are. 
I have heard of them often, but only once did I ever see any 
of them before. That was when some of us one night paid 
a visit to a man who sat much alone, and was said to think a 
great deal. We saw two of those sitting in the room with him, 
and he was as pale as they were. We could not cross the 
threshold, but shivered and shook, and felt ready to melt away. 
Is not your majesty afraid of them too ? ’ 

“ But the king made no answer ; and before he could speak 
again the moon had climbed above the mighty pillars of the 
Church of the Shadows, and looked in at the great window of 
the sky. 

“ The shapes had all vanished ; and the king, again lifting 
up his eyes, saw but the wail of his own chamber, on which 
flickered the Shadow of a Little Child He looked down, and 
there, sitting on a stool by the fire, he saw one of his own 
little ones, waiting to say good-night to his father, and go to 
bed early, that he might rise as early, and be very good and 
happy all Christmas day. 


A.^ELA CATHCART. 


201 


And Ralph Rinkelmann rejoiced that he was a man. and 
not a Shadow.” 

When I had finished my story, the not unusual silence fol- 
lowed. It was soon broken by Adela. 

“ But what were those other shadows, mysteries in the midst 
of mystery?” persisted she. 

“My dear, as the child said shadows were the ghosts of the 
body, so I say these were the shadows of the mind. Will that 
do?” 

“I must think. I don’t know. I can’t trust you. I do 
believe, uncle, you write whatever comes into your head ; and 
then when any one asks you the meaning of this or that, you 
hunt round till you find a meaning just about the same size as 
the thing itself, and stick it on. Don’t you, now ? ” 

“ Perhaps yes, and perhaps no , and perhaps both,” I an- 
swered. 

“ You have the most confounded imagination I ever knew, 
Smith, my boy ! ” said the colonel. “You run right away, 
and leave me to come hobbling after as I best can.” 

“ Oh, never mind ; I always return to my wife and children,’* 
I answered ; and, being an old bachelor, this passed for a good 
joke with the kind-hearted company. No more remarks were 
made upon my Shadow story, though I was glad to see the 
curate pondering over it. Before we parted, the usual ques- 
tion of who was to read the next had to be settled. 

“ I propose, for a change,” said the curate, “ that the club 
meet at my house the next time, and that the story be omitted 
for once. We’ll have some music, and singing, and poetry, 
and all that sort of thing. What do you say, Lizzie ? ” 

“With all my heart,” answered Mrs. Armstrong. 

“You forget,” said the colonel, “that Adela is not well 
enough to go out yet.” 

Adela looked as if she thought that was a mistake, and glanced 
towards the doctor. I think Percy caught sight of the glance 
as it passed him. 

“ If I may be allowed to give a professional opinion,” said 
Harry, “ I think she could go without the smallest danger, if 
she were well wrapped up.” 


202 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“You can have the carriage, of course, my love,” said her 
father, “if you would like to go.” 

“ I should very much like to go,” said Adela. 

And so it was settled to the evident contentment of all ex- 
cept the mother and son, who, I suppose, felt that Adela was 
slipping through their fingers, in this strengthening of adverse 
influences. I was sure myself that nothing could be better 
for her, in either view of the case. Harry did not stay behind 
to ask her any questions this evening, but left with the rest. 

The next day, the bright, frosty weather still continuing, I 
took Adela out for a walk. 

“ You are much better, I think, my dear,” I said. 

“Very much,” she answered. “ I think Mr. Armstrong's 
prescription is doing me a great deal of good. It seems like 
magic. I sleep very well indeed now. And somehow life seems 
a much more possible thing than it looked a week or two ago. 
And the whole wmrld appears more like the work of God.” 

“Iam very glad, my dear. If all your new curate tries to 
teach us be true, the world need not look very dreary to any 
of us.” 

“ But do you believe it all, uncle? ” 

“ Yes, I do, my dear. I believe that the grand, noble way of 
thinking of God and his will must be the true way, though it 
never can be grand or noble enough ; and that belief in beauty 
and truth, notwithstanding so many things that are neither 
beautiful nor true, is essential to a right understanding of the 
■world. Whatever is not good and beautiful is doomed by the 
very death that is in it ; and when we find such things in our- 
selves or in other people, we may take comfort that these must 
be destroyed one day, even if it be by that form of divine love 
which appears as a consuming fire.” 

“ But that is very dreadful too, is it not, uncle? ” 

“ Yes, my dear. But there is a refuge from it : and then 
the fear proves a friend.” 

“ What refuge ? ” 

“ God himself. If you go close up to him, his spirit will 
become your spirit, and you will need no fire then. You will 
find that that which is fire to them that are afar off is a mighty 
graciousness to them that are nigh. They are both the same 
thing.” 


ADELA CATIICART. 


203 


Adela made me no answer. Perhaps I tried to give her 
more than she was ready to receive. Perhaps she needed more 
leading, before she would be able to walk in that road. If so, 
then Providence was leading her; and I need not seek to 
hasten a divine process. 

But at least she enjoyed her walk that bright winter day, 
and came home without being wearied, or the cold getting any 
victory over her. 

As we passed some cottages on our w T ay home, Adela said : — 

“ There is a poor woman lives in one of these cottages, who 
used to be a servant of ours. She is in bad health, and I dare 
say is not very well off in this frost, for her husband is only a 
laborer. I should like to go and see her.” 

“ With all iny heart, my dear,” I answered. 

“This is the house,” said Adela; and she lifted the latch 
and w r ent in gently, I following. 

No one had heard our entrance ; and when Adela knocked at 
the inner door there was no reply. Whereupon she opened the 
door, and then we saw the woman seated on one side of the fire, 
and the man on the other side with his pipe in his mouth ; while 
between them sat the curate with his hands in his pockets, and 
his pipe likewise in his mouth. But they were blowing but a 
small cloud between them, and were evidently very deep in an 
earnest conversation. 

I overheard a part of what the cottager was saying, and 
could not help listening to the rest. 

“ And the man was telling them, sir, that God had picked 
out so many men, women, and children, to go right away to 
glory, and left the rest to be damned forever and ever in hell. 
And I up and spoke to him ; and ‘ Sir,’ says I, ‘ if I was tould 
as how I was to pick out so many out o’ my childeren, and take 
’em with me to a fine house, and leave the rest to be burnt up 
i’ the old one, which o’ them would I choose ? ’ — ‘ How can. I 
tell?’ says he. ‘No doubt,’ says I; ‘they aint your sons 
and darters. But I can. I wouldn’t move a foot, sir; but I’d 
take my chance wi’ the poor things. And, sir,’ says I, ‘ we’re 
all God’s childeren ; and which o’ us is he to choose, and which 
is he to leave out? I don’t believe he'd know a bit better how 
to choose one and leave another than I should, sir, — that is, 
his heart wouldn’t let him lose e’er a one o’ us, or he’d be mis- 


204 


ADELA CATHCART. 


erable forever, as I should be, if I left one o’ mine i the 
fire.’ ” 

Here Adela had the good sense to close the door again, yet 
more softly than she had opened it; and we retired. 

“ That’s the right sort of man,” said I, “ to get a hold of 
the poor. He understands them, being himself as poor in spirit 
as they are in pocket, — or, indeed, I might have said, as he is 
in pocket himself. But depend upon it he comes out both ways 
poorer than he went in.” 

“ It should not be required of a curate to give money,” said 
Adela. 

“ Ho you grudge him the blessedness of giving, Adela? ” 

“ Oh, no. I only think it is too hard on him.” 

“It is as necessary for a poor man to give away, as for a 
rich man. Many poor men are more devoted worshippers of 
Mammon than some rich men.” 

And then I took her home. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE EVENING AT TI1E CURATE’S. 


As I led Adela, well wrapped in furs, down the steps to put 
her into the carriage, I felt by the wind, and saw by the sky, 
that a snow-storm was at hand. This set my heart beating 
with delight, for after all lam only what my friends call me, — 
an old boy ; and so I am still very fond of snow and wind. 
Of course this pleasure is often modified by the recollection 
that it is to most people no pleasure, and to some a source of 
great suffering. But then I recover myself by thinking that 
I did not send for the snow, and that my enjoyment of it will 
neither increase their pains nor lessen my sympathies. And so 
I enjoy it again with all my heart It is partly the sense of 
being lapt in a mysterious fluctuating depth of exquisite shapes 
of evanescent matter, falling like a cataract from an unknown 
airy gulf, where they grow into being and form out of the in- 


ADELA CATHCART. 


205 


visible — well-named by the prophet Job; for a prophet ha 
was in the truest sense, all-seated in his ashes and armed with 
his potsherd — the womb of the snow; partly the sense of 
motion and the goings of the wind through the ethereal mass ; 
partly the delight that always comes from contest with nature, 
— a contest in which no vile passions are aroused, and no weak 
enemy goes helpless to the ground. I presume that in a right 
condition of our nervous nature, instead of our being as some 
would tell us, less exposed to the influences of nature, we should 
in fact be altogether open to them. Our nerves would be a 
thoroughfare for nature in all and each of her moods and 
feelings, stormy or peaceful, sunshiny or sad. The true ref- 
uge from the slavery to which this would expose us, the sub- 
jection of man to circumstance, is to be found, not in the dead- 
ening of the nervous constitution, or in a struggle with the in- 
fluences themselves, but in the strengthening of the moral and 
refining of the spiritual nature ; so that, as the storms rave 
through the vault of heaven without breaking its strong arches 
with their winds, or staining its ethereal blue with their rain- 
clouds, the soul of man should keep clear and steady and great, 
holding within it its own feelings and even passions, knowing 
that, let them moan or rave as they will, they cannot touch the 
nearest verge of the empyrean dome, in whose region they have 
their birth and being. 

For me, I felt myself now, just an expectant human snow- 
storm ; and as I sat on the box by the coachman I rejoiced to 
greet the first flake, which alighted on the tip of my nose even be- 
fore we had cleared our own grounds. Before we had got up 
street , the wind had risen, and the snow thickened, till the 
horses seemed inclined to turn their tails to the hill and the 
storm together, for the storm came down the hill in their faces. 
It wa3 soon impossible to see one’s hand before one’s eyes ; and 
the carriage lamps served only to reveal a chaotic fury of snow- 
flakes, crossing each other’s path at all angles, in the eddies of 
the wind amongst the houses. The coachman had to keep en- 
couraging his horses to get them to face it at all. The 
ground was very slippery ; and so fast fell the snow that it 
had actually begun to ball in the horses’ feet before we reached 
our destination. When we were all safe in Mrs. Armstrong’s 
drawing-room, we sat for a while listening to the wind roar- 


206 


ADELA C ATIIC ART. 


ing in tne chimney, before any of us spoke. And then I did 
not join in the conversation, but pleased myself with looking 
at the room ; for, next to human faces, I delight in human 
abodes, which will always, more or less, according to the amount 
of choice vouchsafed in the occupancy, be like the creatures who 
dwell in them. Even the soldier-crab must have some likeness 
to the snail of whose house he takes possession, else he could 
not live in it at all. 

The first thing to be done by one who would read a 
room is, to clear it as soon as possible of the air of 
the marvellous, the air of the story-book which pervades 
every place at the first sight of it. But I am not now going 
to write a treatise upon this art, for which I have not time 
to invent a name ; but only to give as much of a de- 
scription of this room as will enable my readers to feel 
quite at home with us in it during our evening there. It was 
a large, low room, with two beams across the ceiling at unequal 
distances. There was only a drugget on the floor, and the win- 
dow-curtains were scanty. But there was a glorious fire on 
the hearth, and the tea-board was filled with splendid china, as 
old as the potteries. The chairs, I believe, had been brought 
from old Mr. Armstrong’s lumber-room, and so they all looked 
as if they could tell stories themselves. At all events they 
were just the proper chairs to tell stories in, and I could not 
help regretting that we were not to have any to-night. The 
rest of the company had arrived before us. A warm corner in 
an old-fashioned sofa had been prepared for Adel a, and as soon 
as she was settled in it our hostess proceeded to pour out the 
tea with a simplicity and grace which showed that she had 
been just as much a lady when carrying parcels for the dress- 
maker, and would have been a lady if she had been a house- 
maid. Such women are rare in every circle, the best of every 
kind being rare. It is very disappointing to the imaginative 
youth when, coming up to London and going into society, he 
finds so few of men and women he meets come within the 
charmed circle of his ideal refinement. 

I said to myself : “I am sure she could write a story if she 
would. I must have a try for one from her.” 

When tea was over, she looked at her husband, and then 
went to the piano, and sang the following ballad : — 


ADELA CATHCART. 


207 


“ ‘ Traveller, what lies over the hill? 

Traveller, tell to me ; 

I am only a child — from th3 window-sill 
Over 1 cannot see.’ 

“ ‘ Child, there’s a valley over there, 

Pretty and woody and shy : 

And a little brook that says — “ Take care, 

Or I’ll drown you by and by.” ’ 

“ ‘ And what comes next? ’ — ‘A little town; 

And a towering hill again ; 

More hills and valleys, up and down, 

And a river now and then. 

* And what comes next ? ’ — ‘A lonely moor, 

Without a beaten way ; • 

And gray clouds sailing slow, before 
A wind that will not stay.’ 

*'• ‘ And then? ’ — ‘ Dark rocks and yellow sand, 

And a moaning sea beside.’ 

‘ And then ? ’ — ‘ More sea, more sea, more land. 
And rivers deep and wide.’ 

“ ‘ And then ? ’ — ‘ Oil ! rock and mountain and vale. 
Rivers and fields and men : 

Over and over — a weary tale — 

And round to your home again.’ 

* Is that the end? It is weary at best.’ 

‘ No, child ; it is not the end. 

On summer eves, away in the west, 

You will see a stair ascend; 

•* 4 Built of all colors of lovely stones, — 

A stair up into the sky ; 

Where no one is weary, and no one moans, 

Or wants to be laid by.’ 

“ ‘ I will go.’ — ‘ But the steps are very steep; 

If you would climb up there, 

You must lie at its foot, as still as sleep, 

And be a step of the stair, 

'• ‘For others to put their feet on you, 

To reach the stones high-piled ; 

Till Jesus comes and takes you too, 

And leads you up, rny child ! ’ ” 


“ That is one of your parables, I am sure, Ralph,” said the 
doctor, who was sitting, quite at his ease, on a footstool, with 


208 


ADELA CATIICART. 


his hack against the wall, by the side of the fire opposite to 
Adela, casting every now and then a glance across the fiery 
gulf, just as he had done in church when I first saw him. And 
Percy was there to watch them, though, from some high words 
I overheard, I had judged that it was with difficulty his mother 
had prevailed on him to come. I could not help thinking my- 
self that two pairs of eyes met and parted rather oftener than 
any other two pairs in the room ; but I could find nothing to 
object. 

“ Now, Miss Cathcart, it is your turn to sing.” 

“ Would you mind singing another of Heine’s songs? ” said 
the doctor, as he offered his hand to lead her to the piano. 

“ No,” she answered. “I will not sing one of that sort. 
It was not liked last time. Perhaps what I do sing won’t be 
much better though. 

“ The waters are rising and flowing 
Over the weedy stone, — 

Over and over it going : 

It is never gone. 

“ So joy on joy may go sweeping 
Over the head of pain, — 

Over and over it leaping : 

It will rise again.” 

“ Very lovely, but not much better than w T hat I asked foi. 
In revenge, I will give you one of Heine’s that my brother 
translated. It always reminds me, with a great difference, of 
one in * In Memoriam, 5 beginning : Dark house.” 

So spake Harry, and sang : — 

“The shapes of the days forgotten 
Out of their graves arise, 

And show me what once my life was, 

In the presence of thine eyes. 

“ All day through the streets I wandered, 

As in dreams men go and come ; 

The people in wonder looked at me, 

I was so mournful dumb. 

“It was better though, at night-fall. 

When through the empty town 
I and my shadow together 
Went silent up and down. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


2v9 


*‘With echoing footstep, 

Over the bridge I walk ; 

The moon breaks out of the waters, 

And looks as if she would talk. 

“ I stood still before thy dwelling, 

Like a tree that prays for rain ; 

I stood gazing up at thy window, — 

My heart was in such pain. 

“ And thou lookedst through thy curtains, — 

I saw thy shining hand ; 

And thou sawest me, in the moonlight, 

Still as a statue stand.” 

“ Excuse me,” said Mrs. Cathcart, with a smile, “ but I don t 
think such sentimental songs good for anybody. They can't 
be healthy , — I believe that is the word they use nowadays.” 

“ I don't say they are,” returned the doctor ; “ but many a 
pain is relieved by finding its expression. I wish he had never 
written worse.” 

“ That is not why I like them,” said the curate. u They 
seem to me to hold the same place in literature that our dreams 
do in life. If so much of our life is actually spent in dream- 
ing, there must be some place in our literature for what cor- 
responds to dreaming. Even in this region, we cannot step 
beyond the boundaries of our nature. I delight in reading Lord 
Bacon now ; but one of Jean Paul’s dreams will often give me 
more delight than one of Bacon’s best paragraphs. It depends 
upon the mood. Some dreams like these, in poetry or in sleep, 
arouse individual states of consciousness altogether different 
from any of our waking moods, and not to be recalled by any 
mere effort of the will. All our being, for the moment, has a 
new and strange coloring. We have another kind of life. I 
think myself, our life would be much poorer without our dreams ; 
a thousand rainbow tints and combinations would be gone ; 
music and poetry -would lose many an indescribable exquisite- 
ness and tenderness. You see I like to take our dreams seri- 
ously, as I would even our fun. For I believe that those new, 
mysterious feelings that ccme to us in sleep, if they be only 
from dreams of a richer grass and a softer wind than we have 
known awake, are indications of wells of feeling and delight 
which have not yet broken out of their hiding-places in our 


210 


ADELA CATHCART. 


souls, and are only to be suspected from these rings of fairy 
green that spring up in the high places of our sleep.” 

“ I say, Ralph,” interrupted Harry, “ just that strangest 
of Heine’s ballads, that — ” 

“ Oh, no, no ! not that one. Mrs. Cathcart would not like 
it at all.” 

“ Yes, please do,” said Adela. 

“ Pray don't think of me, gentlemen,” said the aunt. 

“ No, I won’t,” said the curate. 

“ Then I will,” said the doctor, with a glance at Adela, 
which seemed to say, “If you want it, you shall have it, 
whether they like it or not.” 

He repeated, with just a touch of the recitative in his tone, 
the following verses : — 


“Night lay upon mine eyelids : 

Upon my mouth lay lead; 

With withered heart and sinews, 

I lay among the dead. 

“ How long I lay and slumbered, 

I knew not in the gloom, 

I wakened up, and listened 
To a knocking at my tomb. 

“ ‘ Wilt thou not rise, my Henry? 
Immortal day draws on ; 

The dead are all arisen ; 

The endless joy begun.’ 

“ ‘ My love, I cannot raise me ; 

Nor could I find the door; 

My eyes with bitter weeping 
Are blind for evermore.’ 

“ 4 But from thine eyes, dear Henry, 

I’ll kiss away the night ; 

Thou shalt behold the angels, 

And heaven’s own blessed light. 

“ ‘ My love, I cannot raise me ; 

The blood is flowing still, 

Where thou, heart-deep, didst stab mo, 
With a dagger speech to kill.’ 

“ 4 Oh ! I will lay my hand, Henry, 

So soft upon thy heart; 

And that will stop the bleeding. 

Stop all the bitter smart.’ 


ADELA CATHCART. 


211 


“ ‘ My love, I cannot raise me ; 

My head is bleeding too. 

When thou wast stolen from me, 

I shot it through and through.’ 

“ 1 With my thick hair, my Henry, 

I will stop the fountain red ; 

Press back again the blood-stream, 
And heal thy wounded head.* 

“ She begged so soft, so dearly, 

I could no more say no ; 

Writhing, I strove to raise me, 

And to the maiden go. 

“ Then the wounds again burst open ; 
And afresh the torrents break 
Prom head and heart — life’s torrents 
And lo ! I am awake.” 


“ There now, that is enough ! ” said the curate. 

“ That is not nice, — is it, Mrs. Cathcart? ” 

Mrs. Cathcart smiled, and said : — 

“ I should hardly have thought your time well-spent in 
translating it, Mr. Armstrong.” 

“It took me a few idle minutes only,” said the curate. 
“ But my foolish brother, who has a child’s fancy for horrid 
things, took a fancy to that; and so he won’t let my sins be 
forgotten. But I will take away the taste of it with another 
of Heine’s, seeing we have fallen upon him. I should never 
have dreamed of introducing him here. It was Miss Cath- 
cart’s first song that opened the vein, I believe.” 

“ I am the guilty person,” said Adela; “and I fear I am 
not sorry for my sins, — the consequences have been toe 
pleasant. Do go on, Mr. Armstrong.” 

He repeated : — 

“ PEACE. 

“ High in the heavens the sun was glowing; 

Around him the white clouds, like waves were flowing; 

The sea was very still and gray. 

Dreamily thinking as I lay. 

Close by the gliding vessel’s jrheel, 

A sleepless slumber did o’er me steal ; 

And I saw the Christ, the heeler of woe, 

In white and waving garments go ; 

Walking in giant form went he 
Over the land and sea. 


212 


ADELA CATHCART. 


High in the heaven he towered his head, 

And his hands in blessing forth he spread 
Over the land and sea. 

And for a heart, oh, wonder meet ! 

In his breast the sun did throb and beat; 

In his breast, for a heart to the only One, 
Shone the red, the flaming sun. 

The flaming red sun-heart of the Lord 
Forth its gracious life-beams poured; 

Its fair and love-benignant light 
Softly shone, with warming might, 

Over the land and sea. 

“ Sounds of solemn bells that go 
Through the still air to and fro, 

Draw, like swans, in a rosy band, 

The gliding ship to the grassy land, 

Where a mighty city, towered and high, 

Breaks and jags the line of the sky. 

“ Oh, wonder of peace, how still was the town! 
The hollow tumult had all gone down 
Of the bustling and babbling trades. 

Men and women, and youths and maids, 

White clothes wearing, 

Palm branches bearing, 

Walked through the clean and echoing streets, 
And when one with another meets, 

They look at each other with eyes that tell 
That they understand each other well ; 

And, trembling with love and sweet restraint, 
Each kisses the other upon the brow, 

And looks above, like a hoping saint, 

To the holy, healing sun-heart’s glow ; 

Which atoning all, its red blood streams 
Downward in still outwelling beams ; 

Till, threefold blessed, they call aloud, 

The single hearts of a happy crowd, 

Praised be Jesus Christ! ” 


“ You will like that better,’’ concluded the curate, again 
addressing Mrs. Cathcart. 

“ Fanciful,” she answered. “ I don’t like fancies about 
sacred things.” 

“I fear, however,” replied he, “that most of our serious 
thoughts about sacred things are a little better than fancies.” 

“ Sing that other of his about the flowers, and I promise 
you never to mention his name in this company again,” said 
Harry. 

“ Very well, I will, on that condition,” answered Ralph, 


ADELA CATHCART. 


213 


“In the sunny summer morning, 

Into the garden I come ; 

The flowers are whispering and speaking, 

But I, I wander dumb. 

“The flowers are whispering and speaking, 

And they gaze at my visage wan : 

‘ You must not be cross with our sister, 

You melancholy man ! * ” 

Is that all ? ” said Adela. 

“ Yes, that’s all,” answered the singer. 

“ But we cannot let you off with that only,” she said. 

u What an awful night it is ! ” interrupted the colonel, 
rising and going to the window to peep out. u Between me and 
the lamp, the air looks solid with driving snow.” 

11 Sing one of your winter songs, Ralph,” said the curate’s 
wife. “ This is surely stormy enough for one of your Scotch 
winters that you are so proud of.” 

Thus adjured, Mr. Armstrong sang : — 

“A morning clear, with frosty light 
From sunbeams late and low ; 

They shine upon the snow so white. 

And shine back from the snow. 

“ From icy spears a drop will run, — 

Not fall : at afternoon, 

It shines a diamond for the sun, 

An opal for the moon. 

“And when the bright, sad sun is low 
Behind the mountain-dome, 

A twilight wind will come, and blow 
All round the children’s home ; 

And waft about the powdery snow, 

As night’s dim footsteps pass ; 

But waiting, in its grave below, 

Green lies the summer-grass.” 


“ Now it seems to me,” said the colonel, “ though I am no 
authority in such matters, that it is just in such weather as 
this that we don’t need songs of that sort. They are not very 
exhilarating.” 

“ There is truth in that,” replied Mr. Armstrong. “ I think 


214 


ADELA CATECART. 


it is in winter chiefly that we want songs of summer, as the 
Jews sang, — if not the songs of Zion, yet of Zion, in a strange 
land. Indeed, most of our songs are of this sort.” 

“ Then sing one of your own summer songs.” 

“ No, my dear ; I would rather not. I don’t altogether like 
them. Besides, if Harry could sing that Tryst of Schiller’s, 
it would bring back the feeling of the summer better than any 
brooding over the remembrances of it could do.” 

u Did you translate that too? ” I asked. 

“ Yes. As I told you, at one time of my life translating 
was a constant recreation to me. I have had many half-suc- 
cesses, some of which you have heard. I think this one bet- 
ter.” 

“ What is the name of it ? ” 

“ It is 1 Die Erwartung,’ — The Waiting , literally, or Ex- 
pectation. But the Scotch w r ord Tryst (Rendezvous) is a bet- 
ter name for a poem, though English. It is often curious how 
a literal rendering, even when it gives quite the meaning, will 
not do, because of the different ranks of the two words in their 
respecti ve languages. ’ 5 

“ I have heard you say,” said Harry, “ that the principles 
of the translation of lyrics have yet to be explored.” 

“ Yes. But what I have just said applies nearly as much 
to prose as to the verse. — Sing, Harry. You know it well 
enough.” 

“ Part is in recitative.” 

“ So it is. Go on.” 

11 To enter into the poem, you must suppose a lover waiting 
in an arbor for his lady-love. First come two recited lines of 
expectation ; then two more, in quite a different measure, of 
disappointment; and then a long-lined song of meditation; 
until expectation is again aroused, to be again disappointed, 
and so through the poem. 


“THE TRYST. 

“ That was the wicket a-shaking! 

That was its clang as it fell ! 

No, ’twas but the night-wind waking, 
And the poplars’ answering swell. 




ADELA CATIICART, 


215 


6t Put on thy beauty, foliage-vaulted roof, 

To greet her entrance, radiant all with grace ; 

Ye branches, weave a holy ten., star-proof 
With lovely darkness, silent, her embrace ; 

Sweet, wandering airs, creep through the leafy woof, 
And toy and gambol round her rosy face, 

When with its load of beauty, lightly borne, 

Glides in the fairy foot, and brings my morn. 

“ Hush ! I hear timid, yet daring 
Steps that are almost a race ! 

No, a bird — some terror scaring — 

Started from its roosting-place. 

** Quench thy sunk torch, Hyperion ! Night, appear ! 
Dim, ghostly Night, lone loveliness entrancing ! 
Spread, purple blossoms, round us, in a sphere; 
Twine, lattice-boughs, the mystery enhancing; 
Love’s joy would die, if more than two were here, — - 
She shuns the daybeam indiscreetly glancing. 

Eve’s star alone — no envious tell-tale she — 

Gazes unblamed, from far across the sea. 

“ Hark ! distant voices, that lightly 
Ripple the silence deep ! 

No ; the swans that, circling nightly, 

Through the silver waters sweep. 

** Around me wavers an harmonious flow ; 

The fountain’s fall swells in delicious rushes ; 

The flower beneath the west wind’s kiss bends low ; 

A trembling joy from each to all outgushes. 
Grape-clusters beckon; peaches luring glow, 

Behind dark leaves hiding their crimson blushes ; 

The winds, cooled with the sighs of flowers asleep. 
Light waves of odor o’er my forehead sweep. 

“ Hear I not echoing footfalls, 

Hither along the pleached walk? 

No ; the over-ripened fruit falls, 
Ileavy-swollen, from off its stalk. 

4 ‘ Dull is the eye of day that flamed so bright ; 

In gentle death, its colors all are dim; 

Unfolding fearless in the fair half light, 

The flower-cups ope, that all day closed their brim 
Calm lifts the moon her clear face on the night ; 
Dissolved in masses faint, Earth’s features swim; 
Each grace withdraws the soft relaxing zone, — 
Beauty unrobed shines full on me alone, 

“ See I not, there, a white shimmer? — 

Something with pale silken shine? 

No; it is the column’s glimmer, 

’Gainst the gloomy hedge of pino. 


216 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ O longing heart! no more thyself delight 
With shadow-forms, — a sweet, deceiving pleasure; 
Filling thy arms but as the vault of night 
Infoldeth darkness without hope or measure. 

Oh, lead the living beauty to my sight, 

That living love her loveliness may treasure ! 

Let but her shadow fall across my eyes, 

And straight my dreams exulting truths will rise! 

And soft as, when, purple and golden, 

The clouds of the evening descend, 

So had she drawn nigh unbeholden, 

And wakened with kisses her friend.” 


Never had song a stranger accompaniment than this song 
for the air was full of fierce noises near and afar. Again thi 
colonel went to the window. When he drew back the curtains, 
at Adela’s request, and pulled up the blind, you might have 
fancied the dark wind full of snowy Banshees, fleeting and 
flickering by, and uttering strange, ghostly cries of warning. 
The friends crowded into the bay-window, and stared out into 
the night with a kind of happy awe. They pressed their brows 
against the panes, in the vain hope of seeing where there was 
no light. Every now and then the wind would rush up against 
the window in fierce attack, as if the creatures that rode by 
upon the blast had seen the row of white faces, and it angered 
them to be thus stared at, and they rode their airy steeds full 
tilt against the thin rampart of glass that protected the hu- 
man weaklings from becoming the spoil of their terrors. 

While every one was silent with the intensity of this out- 
look, and with the awe of such an uproar of wild things 
without souls, there came a loud knock at the door, which was 
close to the window where they stood. Even the old colonel, 
whose nerves were as hard as piano-wires, started back and 
cried “God bless me! ” The doctor, too, started, and began 
mechanically to button his coat, but said nothing. Adela gave 
a little, suppressed scream, and, ashamed of the weakness, crept 
away to her sofa-corner. 

The servant entered, saying that Dr. Armstrong’s man 
wanted to see him. Harry went into the passage, which was 
just outside the drawing-room, and the company overheard the 
following conversation, every word : — 

“ Well, William?” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


217 


“ There’s a man come after you from Cropstone Farm, sir. 
His missus is took sudden.” 

“What? — It’s not the old lady then? It’s the young 
mistress ?” 

“ Yes ; she’s in labor, sir; leastways she was , — he’s been 
three hours on the road. I reckon it’s all over by this time. 
You won’t go, sir ! It’s morally unpossible.” 

“ Won’t go ! It’s morally impossible not. You knew I 
would go. That’s the mare outside.” 

“No, sir. It's Tilter.” 

“ Then you did think I wouldn’t go ! You knew well 
enough Tilter’s no use for a job like this. The mare’s my 
only chance.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir. I did not think you would go.” 

“ Home with you, as hard as Tilter can drive — confound 
him ! — And bring the mare instantly. She’s had her sup- 
per ? ” 

“ I left her munching, sir.” 

“ Don’t let her drink. I’ll give her a quart of ale at Job 
Timpson’s.” 

“ You won’t go that way, surely, sir ? ” 

“ It’s the nearest; and the snow can’t be very deep yet.” 

“I’ve brought your boots and breeches, sir.” 

“All right.” 

The man hurried out, and Harry was heard to run upstairs 
to his brother’s room. The friends stared at each other in some 
perturbation. Presently Harry re-entered, in the articles last 
mentioned, saying : — 

“ Ralph, have you an old shooting-coat you could lend 
me?” 

“ I should think so, Harry. I’ll fetch you one.” 

Now at length the looks of the circle found some expression 
in the words of the colonel : — 

“ Mr. Armstrong, I am an old soldier, and I trust I know 
what duty is. The only question is, Can this be done ? ” 

“ Colonel, no man can tell what can or cannot be done till he 
tries. I think it can.” 

The colonel held out his hand — his sole reply. 

The school-master and his wife ventured to expostulate. 
To them Harry made fun of the danger. Adela had come 


218 


ADELA CATHCART. 


from the corner to which she had retreated and joined the group. 
She laid her hand on Harry’s arm, and he saw that she was 
pale as death. 

“ Don’t go,” she said. 

As if to enforce her words, the street-door, which I suppose 
William had not shut properly, burst open with a bang 
against the wall, and the wind went shrieking through the 
house, as if in triumph at having forced an entrance. 

“ The woman is in labor,” said Harry, in reply to Adela, 
forgetting, in the stern reality both for the poor woman and 
himself, that girls of Adela’s age and social position are not 
accustomed to hear such facts so plainly expressed from a 
man’s lips. Adela, however, simply accepted the fact, and 
replied : — 

“ But you will be too late anyhow.” 

“ Perhaps just in time,” he answered, as his brother entered 
with a coat over his arm. 

“Ralph,” lie went on, with a laugh, “they are trying to 
persuade me not to go.” 

“ It's a tempting of Providence,” said Mrs. Bloomfield. 

“Harry, my boy,” said the curate, solemnly, “I would 
rather have you brought home dead to-morrow than see you 
sitting by that fire five minutes after your mare comes. But 
you’ll put on a great-coat? ” 

“No, thank you. I shall do much better without one. 
How comical I shall look in Farmer Prisphig's Sunday clothes ! 
I’m not going to be lost this storm, Mrs. Bloomfield; for I 
second-see myself at this moment, sitting by the farmer’s 
kitchen fire, in certain habiliments a world too wide for my un- 
shrunk shanks, but doing my best to be worthy of them by the 
attention I am paying to my supper.” 

Here he stooped to Lizzie and whispered in her ear : — 

“ Don’t let them make a fuss about my going. There is 
really no particular danger. And I don’t want my patient 
there frightened and thrown back, you know.” 

Mrs. Armstrong nodded a promise. In a moment more, 
Harry had changed his coat; for the storm had swept away 
ceremony at least. Lizzie ran and brought him a glass of 
wine ; but he begged for a glass of milk instead, and was soon 
supplied ; after which he buttoned up his coat, tightened the 


ADELA CATIICART. 


219 


straps of his spurs, which had been brought slack on his boots, 
put on one of a thick pair of gloves which he found in his 
brother’s coat, bade them all good-night, drew on the otnei 
glove, and stood prepared to go. 

Did he or did he not see Adela’s eyes gazing out of her pale 
face with an expression of admiring apprehension, as she stood 
bending forward, and looking up at the strong man about to 
fight the storm, and all ready to meet it ? I don’t know. I 
only put it to his conscience. 

In a moment more, the knock came again, — the only sign, 
for no one could hear the mare’s hoofs in the wind and snow. 
With one glance and one good-night he hurried out. The 
wind once more, for a brief moment, held an infernal carnival 
in the house. They crowded to the window, — saw a dim form 
heave up on horseback, and presently vanish. All space lay 
beyond ; but, for them, he was swallowed up by the jaws of the 
darkness. They knew no more. A flash of pride in his brother 
shot from Ralph's eyes, as, with restrained excitement, for 
which he sought some outlet, he walked towards the piano. 
His wife looked at Ralph with the same light of pride, tempered 
by thankfulness ; for she knew, if he had been sent for, he 
■would have gone all the same as Harry ; but then he was not 
such a horseman as his brother. The fact was, he had neither 
seat nor hands, though no end of pluck. 

“ He will have to turn back,” said the colonel. “ He can’t 
reach Cropstone Farm to-night. It lies right across the moor. 
It is impossible.” 

“ Impossible things are always being done,” said the 
curate, “else the world would have been all moor by this 
time.” 

“ The wind is dead against him,” said the school-master. 

“ Better in front than in flank,” said the colonel. “ It won’t 
blow him out of the saddle.” 

Adela had crept back to her corner, where she sat shading 
her eyes, and listening. I saw that her face was very pale. 
Lizzie joined her, and began talking to her. 

I had not much fear for Harry, for I could not believe that 
his hour was come yet. I had great confidence in him and his 
mare. And I believed in the God that made Harry, and the 
mare, and the storm too, through which he had sent them to 


ADELA CATHCART. 


220 

the aid of one who was doing her part to keep his world 
going. 

But now Mr. Armstrong had found a vent for his excite- 
ment in another of his winter songs, which might be very well 
for his mood, though it was not altogether suited to that of 
some of the rest of us. He sang : — 

“ Oh, wildly wild the winter-blast 
Is whirling round the snow ; 

The wintry storms are up at last, 

And care not how they go. 

“ In wreaths and mists, the frozen white 
Is torn into the air ; 

It pictures, in the dreary light, 

An ocean in despair. 

“ Come, darkness ! rouse the fancy more ; 

Storm ! wake the silent sea ; 

Till, roaring in the tempest-roar, 

It rave to ecstasy ; 

“And death-like figures, long and white, 

Sweep through the driving spray; 

And, fading in the ghastly night, 

Cry faintly far away.” 


I saw Adela shudder. Presently she asked her papa 
whether it was not time to go home. Mrs. Armstrong pro- 
posed that she should stay all night ; but she evidently wished 
to go. It would be rather perilous w T ork to drive down the 
hill with the wind behind, in such a night ; but a servant was 
sent to hasten the carriage notwithstanding. The colonel and 
Percy and I ran alongside of it, ready to render any assist- 
ance that might be necessary ; and, although we all said we 
had never been out in such an uproar of the elements, we 
reached home in safety. 

As Adela bade us good-night in the hall, I certainly felt 
very uneasy as to the effects of the night's adventures upon 
her, — she looked so pale and wretched. 

She did not come down to breakfast. 

But she appeared at lunch, nothing the worse, and in very 
good spirits. 

If I did not think that this had something to do with an- 
other fact I have come to the knowledge of since, I don’t 


ADELA cathcart. 


221 


know that the particulars of the evening need have been 
related so minutely. The other fact was this; that in the 
gray dawn of the morning, by which time the snow had ceased, 
though the wind still blew, Adela saw from her window a 
weary rider and wearier horse pass the house, going up the 
street. The heads of both were sunk low. You might have 
thought the poor mare was looking for something she had lost 
last night in the snow ; and perhaps ‘it was not all fatigue with 
Harry Armstrong. Perhaps he was giving thanks that he had 
saved two lives instead of losing his own. He was not so ab- 
sorbed, however, but that he looked up at the house as he 
passed, and I believe he saw the blind of her window drop 
back into its place. 

But how did she come to he looking out just at the mo- 
ment ? 

If a lady has not slept all night, and has looked out of 
window ninety-nine times before, it is not very wonderful that 
at the hundredth time she should see what she was looking 
for ; that is, if the object desired has not been lost in the snow, 
or drowned in a moorland pit ; neither of which had happened 
to Harry Armstrong. Nor is it unlikely that, after seeing 
what she has watched for, she will fall too fast asleep to be 
roused by the breakfast-bell. 


CHAPTER XII. 

PERCY AND IIIS MOTHER. 

At luncheon the colonel said : — 

il Well, Adela, you will be glad to know that our hero of 
last night returned quite safe this morning.” 

“Iam glad to know it, papa.” 

“ He is one of the right sort, that young fellow. Duty is 
the first thing with him.” 

“ Perhaps duty may not have been his only motive,” said 
Mrs. Cathcart, coldly. “ It was too good an opportunity to 
be lost.” 


222 


ADELA CATHCART. 


Adela seemed to understand her, for she blushed ; but not 
with embarrassment alone, for the fire that made her cheek 
glow red flashed in flames from her eyes. 

“ Some people, aunt,” she said, trying to follow the cold 
tone in which Mrs. Cathcart had spoken, “have not the fac- 
ulty for the perception of the noble and self-denying. Their 
own lives are so habitually elevated, that they see nothing re- 
markable in the devotion of others.” 

“Well, Ido see nothing remarkable in it,” returned the 
aunt, in a tone that indicated she hardly knew what to make 
of Adela’s sarcasm. “ Mr. Armstrong would have been 
liable to an action at law if he had refused to go. And then 
to come into the drawing-room in his boots and spurs, and 
change his coat before ladies. It was all just of a piece with 
the coarse speech he made to you when you were simple 
enough to ask him not to go. I can’t think what you admire 
about the man, I am sure.” 

Adela rose and left the room. 

“You are too hard on Mr. Armstrong,” said the colonel. 

“Perhaps I am, colonel; but I have my reasons. If you 
will be blind to your daughter’s interests, that is only the 
more reason why I should keep my eyes open to them.” 

So saying, Mrs. Cathcart rose, and followed her niece out 
of the room, but no farther, I will venture to say. Fierce as 
the aunt was, there had been that in the niece’s eyes, as she 
went, which I do not believe the vulgar courage of the aunt 
could .have faced. 

I concluded that Mrs. Cathcart had discovered Adela’s rest- 
lessness the night before ; had very possibly peeped into her 
room ; and, as her windows looked in the same direction, might 
have seen Harry riding home from his selfish task in the cold 
gray morning ; for scheming can destroy the rest of some 
women as perfectly as loving can destroy the rest of others. 
She might have made the observation, too, that Adela had 
lain as still as a bird unhatched, after that apparition of weari- 
ness had passed. 

The colonel again sank into an uncomfortable mood. He 
had loved his dead brother very dearly, and had set his heart on 
marrying Adela to Percy. Besides, there was quite enough 
of worldliness left in the heart of the honorable old soldier to 


ADELA CATHCAET. 


223 


make him feel that a country practitioner, of very moderate 
means, was not to be justified in aspiring to the hand of his 
daughter. Moreover, he could hardly endure the thought of 
his daughter’s marriage at all, for he had not a little of the 
old man’s jealousy in him ; and the notion of Percy being her 
husband was the only form in which the thought could present 
itself, that was in the least degree endurable to him. Yet he 
could not help admiring Harry ; and, until his thoughts had 
been turned into their present channel by Mrs. Cathcart’s re- 
marks, he had felt that that lady was unjust to the doctor. 
But to think that his line, for he had no son, should merge 
into that of the Armstrongs, who were of somewhat dubious 
descent in his eyes, and Scotch, too, — though, by the way 
his own line was Scotch, a few hundred years back, — was 
sufficient to cause him very considerable uneasiness : pain would 
be the more correct word. 

I have, for many pages, said very little about Percy; 
simply because there has been very little to say about him. 
He was always present at our readings, but did not appear to 
take any interest in them. He would generally lie on a 
couch, and stare either at Adela or the fire till he fell asleep. 
If he did not succeed in getting to sleep, he would show mani- 
fest signs of being bored. No doubt he considered the whole 
affair a piece of sentimental humbug. And during the day I 
saw very little of him. He had hunted once or twice, on one 
of his uncle’s horses ; they had scarcely seen the hounds this 
season. But that was a bore, no doubt. He went skating oc- 
casionally, and had once tried to get Adela to accompany him ; 
but she would not. These amusements, with a few scattered 
hours of snipe-shooting, composed his Christmas enjoyments ; 
the intervals being filled up with yawning, teasing the dogs, 
growling at his mother and the cold, and sleeping the 11 inno- 
cent sleep.” 

Whether he had any real regard for Adela I could not 
quite satisfy myself, — I mean Teal by the standard and on the 
scale of his own being; for, of course, a3 compared with the 
love of men like the Armstrongs, the attachment of a lad like 
Percy could hardly be considered veal at all. But even that, 
as I say, I could not clearly find out. His jealousy seemed 
rather the jealousy ( f what wa3 his, or ought to be his, than 


224 


ADELA CATHCART. 


any more profound or tiagical feeling. But he evidently dis- 
liked the doctor; and the curate, too, whether for his own 
sake or for the doctor’s, is of little consequence. 

In the course of this forenoon I came upon Master Percy 
in the kitchen-garden. He had set an old shutter against one 
of the walls for a target, and was peppering away at it with a 
revolver ; apparently quite satisfied if he succeeded in hitting 
the same panel twice running at twelve paces. Guessing at 
the nonsense that was in his head, I sauntered up to him, and 
watched his practice for a while. He pulled the trigger with 
a jerk that threw the muzzle up half an inch every time 
he fired, else I don’t believe he would have hit the board at 
all. But he held his breath beforehand, till he was red in the 
face, because he had heard that, in firing at a mark, pistol- 
shooters did not even breathe, to avoid the influence of the 
motion of the chest upon the aim. 

“Ah!” I said, “pretty well. But you should see Mr. 
Henry Armstrong shoot.” 

Whereupon Mr. Percy Cathcart deliberately damned Mr. 
Henry Armstrong, expressly and by name. I pretended not 
to have heard him, and, continuing to regard the said con- 
demned as still alive and comfortable, went on : — 

“Just ask him, the next time you find him at home, to let 
you see him drive a nail with three pistol-bullets.” 

He threw the pistol from him, exploded himself like a shell, 
in twenty different fragments of oaths, and left me the kitchen 
garden and the pistol, which latter I took a little practice with 
myself, for the sake of emptying two of the chambers still 
charged. Whether Henry Armstrong even knew how to fire 
a pistol, I did not know ; but I dare say he was a first-rate 
shot, if I only had known it. I sent the pistol up to Mr. Percy’s 
room by the hand of Mr. Beeves ; but I never heard him prac- 
tising any more. 

The next night the curate was to read us another story. 
The time arrived, and with it all our company, except Harry. 
Indeed it was a marvel that he had been able to attend so 
often as he had attended. I presume the severe weather had 
by this time added to his sick-list. 

Although I fear the chief end of our readings was not so fully 
attained as hitherto, or, in other words, that Adela did not 


ADELA CATHCART. 


225 


enjo}' the evenings so much as usual, I will jet record all with 
mj usual faithfulness. 

The curate and his wife were a little late, and when they 
arrived they found us waiting for them in music. As soon 
as they entered Adela rose from the piano. 

“ Do go on, Miss Cathcart,” said the curate. 

“ I had just finished, ” she replied. 

“Then if you will allow me, I will sing a song first, which 
I think will act as an antidote to those sentimental ones which 
we had at my house, and of which Mrs. Cathcart did not ap 
prove.” 

“ Thank you,” said everybody, Mrs. Cathcart included. 

Whereupon the curate sang : — 


“ I am content. In trumpet-tones, 

My song, let people know. 

And many a mighty man, with throne 
And sceptre, is not so. 

And if he is, I joyful cry, 

Why, then, he’s just the same as I. 

•* The Mogul’s gold, the Sultan’s show 
His bliss, supreme too soon, 

Who, lord of all the world below, 
Looked up unto the moon — 

I would not pick it up — all that 
Is only fit for laughing at. 

“ My motto is, — Content with this. 

Gold — place — I prize not such. 
That which I have, my measure is ; 

Wise men desire not much. 

Men wish and wish and have their will, 
And wish again, as hungry still. 

“And gold and honor are besides 
A very brittle glass ; 

And time, in his unresting tides, 

Makes all things change and pass , 
Turns riches to a beggar’s dole ; 

Sets glory’s race an infant’s goal. 

“ Be noble, — that is more than wealth ; 
Do right, — that’s more than place ; 
Then in the spirit there is health, 

And gladness in the face ; 

Then thou art with thyself at one 
And, no man hatirg, fearest none. 


226 


A DEL A CATllCART- 


“ I am content. In trumpet tones. 

My song, let people know. 

And many a mighty man, with throne 
And sceptre, is not so ; 

And if he is, I jovful cry, 

Why, then, he’s just the same as I.” 

“ Is that one of your own, Mr. Armstrong?’’ asked the 
colonel. 

u It is, like most of fnose you have heard from me and my 
brother, only a translation. 

“Iam no judge of poetry, but it seems to me that if he 
was content he need not say so much about it.” 

“ There is something in what you say. But there was no 
show-off in Claudius, I think. He was a most simple-hearted, 
amiable man, to all appearance. A man of business, too, — 
manager of a bank at Altona, in the beginning of the present 
century. But as I have not given a favorable impression of 
him, allow me to repeat a little bit of innocent humor of his, — 
a cradle song, — which I like fully better than the other.” 

“ Most certainly ; it is only fair,” answered the colonel. 


“ Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure ; 

Thou art thy father’s miniature ; 

That art thou, though thy father goes 
And swears that thou hast not his nose. 

“ A moment gone, he looked at thee, 

My little budding rose, 

And said, No doubt there’s much of me. 
But he has not my nose. 

“ I think myself, it is too small, 

But it is his nose after all ; 

For if thy nose his nose be not, 

Whence came the nose that thou hast got? 

“ Sleep, baby, sleep ; don’t half-way doze : 
To tease me, — that’s his part. 

No matter if you’ve not his nose, 

So be you’ve got his heart 1 ” 


ADELA CATIICART. 


227 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE BROKEN SWORDS. 

Every one liked this, except Mrs. Cathcart, who opined, 
with her usual smile, that it was rather silly. 

“ Well, I hope a father may be silly sometimes,” said the 
curate, with a glance at his wife, which she did not acknowl- 
edge. “ At least, I fear I should be silly enough, if I were a 
father.” 

No more remarks were made, and, as it was now quite time 
to begin the story, Mr. Armstrong took his place, and the rest 
took their places. He began at once. 

“THE BROKEN SWORDS. 

“ The eyes of three, two sisters and a brother, gazed for the 
last time on a great pale-golden star, that followed the sun 
down the steep west. It went down to arise again; and the 
brother about to depart might return, but more than the usual 
doubt hung upon his future. For between the white dresses 
of the sisters shone his scarlet coat and golden sword-knot, 
which he had put on for the first time, more to gratify their 
pride than his own vanity. The brightening moon, as if pro- 
phetic of a future memory, had already begun to dim the scar- 
let and the gold, and to give them a pale, ghostly hue. In her 
thoughtful light the whole group seemed more like a meeting 
in the land of shadows than a parting in the substantial earth. 
But which should be called the land of realities ? — the region 
where appearance, and space, and time drive between, and stop 
the flowing currents of the- soul s speech ? or that region where 
heart meets heart, and appearance has become the slave to ut- 
terance, and space and time are forgotten ? 

“ Through the quiet air came the far-off rush cf water, and 
the near cry of the land-rail. Now and then a chilly wind 
blew unheeded through the startled and jostling leaves that 
shady the ivy-seat. Else, there was calm everywhere, ren- 
dered yet deeper and more intense by the dusky sorrow that 
filled their hearts. For, far away, hundreds of miles beyond 


228 


ADELA CATIICART. 


the hearing of their ears, roared the great war-guns ; next 
week their brother must sail with his regiment to join the ar- 
my , and to-morrow he must leave his home. 

“ The sisters looked on him tenderly, with vague fears about 
his fate. Yet little they divined it. That the face they loved 
might lie pale and bloody, in a heap of slain, was the worst 
image of it that arose before them ; but this, had they seen the 
future, they would, in ignorance of the further future, have in- 
finitely preferred to that which awaited him. And even while 
they looked on him, a dim feeling of the unsuitableness of his 
lot filled their minds. For, indeed, to all judgments it must 
have seemed unsuitable that the home-boy, the loved of 
his mother, the pet of his sisters, who was happy, woman- 
like (as Coleridge says), if he possessed the signs of love, 
having never yet sought for its proofs, — that he should 
be sent amongst soldiers, to command and be commanded ; to 
kill, or perhaps to be himself crushed out of the fair earth in 
the uproar that brings back for the moment the reign of Night 
and Chaos. No wonder that to bis sisters it seemed strange 
and sad. Yet such was their own position in the battle of life, 
in which their father had died with doubtful conquest, that 
when their old military uncle sent the boy an ensign’s commis- 
sion, they did not dream of refusing the only path open, as 
they thought, to an honorable profession, even though it 
might lead to the trench-grave. They heard it as the voice of 
destiny, wept, and yielded. 

“ If they had possessed a deeper insight into his character, 
they would have discovered yet further reason to doubt the 
fitness of the profession chosen for him ; and if they had ever 
seen him at school, it is possible the doubt of fitness might 
have strengthened into a certainty of incongruity. ITis com- 
parative inactivity amongst his school-fellows, though occasioned 
by no dulness of intellect, might have suggested the necessity 
of a quiet life, if inclination and liking had been the arbiters 
in the choice. Nor was this inactivity the result of defective 
animal spirits either, for sometimes his mirth and boyish frolic 
were unbounded ; but it seemed to proceed from an over-activity 
of the inward life, absorbing, and in some measure checking, 
the outward manifestation. lie had so much to do in his own 
hidden kingdom, that he had not time to take his place in the 


ADELA CATHCART. 


229 


polity and strife of the commonwealth around him. Hence, 
while other boys were acting, he was thinking. In this point 
of difference he felt keenly the superiority of many of his com- 
panions ; for another boy would have the obstacle overcome, 
or the adversary subdued, while he was meditating on the pro- 
priety, or on the means, of effecting the desired end. He 
envied their promptitude, while they never saw reason to envy 
his wisdom ; for his conscience, tender and not strong, fre- 
quently transformed slowness of determination into irresolu- 
tion ; while a delicacy of the sympathetic nerves tended to 
distract him from any predetermined course, by the diversity 
of their vibrations, responsive to influences from all quarters, 
and deotructive to unity of purpose. 

“ Of such a one, the a 'priori judgment would be, that he 
ought to be left to meditate and grow for some time, before 
being called upon to produce the fruits of action. But add to 
these mental conditions a vivid imagination, and a high sense 
of honor, nourished in childhood by the reading of the old 
knightly romances, and then put the youth in a position in 
which action is imperative, and you have elements of strife 
sufficient to reduce that fair kingdom of his to utter anarchy 
and madness. Yet so little do we know ourselves, and so 
different are the symbols with which the imagination works its 
algebra, from the realities which those symbols represent, that 
as yet the youth felt no uneasiness, but contemplated his new 
calling with a glad enthusiasm and some vanity ; for all his 
prospect lay in the glow of the scarlet and the gold. Nor did 
this excitement receive any check till the day before his depart- 
ure, on which day I have introduced him to my readers, when, 
accidentally taking up a newspaper of a week old, his eye fell 
on these words : 4 Already crying women are to be met in 
the streets .’ With this cloud afar on his horizon, which, 
though no bigger than a man’s hand, yet cast a perceptible 
shadow over his mind, he departed next morning. The coach 
carried him beyond the consecrated circle of home-laws and 
impulses, out into the great tumult, above which rises ever and 
anon the cry of Cain, 4 Am I my brother’s keeper ? ’ 

44 Every tragedy of higher order, constructed in Christian 
times, will correspond more or less to the grand drama of the 
Bible; wherein the first act opens with a brilliant sunset vision 


230 


ADELA CATHCART. 


of Paradise, in which childish sense and need are served with 
all the profusion of the indulgent nurse. But the glory fades 
off into gray and black, and night settles down upon the heart 
which, rightly uncontent with the childish, and not having yet 
learned the childlike, seeks knowledge and manhood as a thing 
denied by the Maker, and yet to be gained by the creature ; 
so sets forth alone to climb the heavens, and, instead of climb- 
ing, falls into the abyss. Then follows the long dismal night 
of feverish efforts and delirious visions, or, it may be, helpless 
despair ; till at length a deeper stratum of the soul is heaved 
to the surface ; and amid the first dawn of morning, the youth 
says within him, ‘ I have sinned against my Maker — I will 
arise and go to my Father .’ More or less, I say, will Chris- 
tian tragedy correspond to this, — a fall and a rising again ; 
not a rising only, but a victory ; not a victory merely, but a 
triumph. Such, in its way and degree, is my story. I have 
shown, in one passing scene, the home-paradise ; now I have to 
show a scene of a far differing nature. 

u The young ensign was lying in his tent, weary, but wake- 
ful. All day long the cannon had been bellowing against the 
walls of the city, which now lay with wide, gaping breach, 
ready for the morrow's storm, but covered yet with the friendly 
darkness. His regiment was ordered to be ready with the 
earliest dawn to march up to the breach. That day, for the 
first time, there had been blown on his sword, — there the 
sword lay, a spot on the chased hilt still. He had cut down 
Dne of the enemy in a skirmish with a sallying party of the 
besieged, and the look of the man, as he fell, haunted him. He 
felt, for the time, that he dared not pray to the Father, for the 
blood of a brother had rushed forth at the stroke of his arm, 
and there was one fewer of living souls on the earth because 
he lived thereon. And to-morrow he must lead a troop of men 
up to that poor disabled town, and turn them loose upon it, 
not knowing what might follow in the triumph of enraged and 
victorious foes, who for weeks had been subjected, by the con- 
stancy of the place, to the greatest privations. It was true the 
general had issued his commands against all disorder and pil- 
lage ; but if the soldiers once yielded to temptation, what might 
not be done before the officers could reclaim them ! All "the 
wretched tales he had read of the sack of cities rushed back on 


ADELA CATHCART. 


231 


his memory. He shuddered as he lay. Then his conscience 
began to speak, and to ask what right he had to be there. 
AVas the war a just one? He could not tell; for this was a 
bad time for settling nice questions. But there he was, right 
or wrong, fighting and shedding blood on God’s earth, beneath 
God’s heaven. 

u Over and over he turned the question in his mind ; again 
and again the spouting blood of his foe, and the death-look in 
his eye, rose before him ; and the youth who at school could 
never fight with a companion, because he was not sure that he 
was in the right, was alone in the midst of undoubting men of 
war, amongst whom he was driven helplessly along, upon the 
waves of a terrible necessity. What wonder that in the midst 
of these perplexities his courage should fail him ! What won- 
der that the consciousness of fainting should increase the faint- 
ness ! or that the dread of fear and its consequences should 
hasten and invigorate its attacks ! To crown all, when he 
dropped into a troubled slumber at length, he found himself 
hurried, as on a storm of fire, through the streets of the cap- 
tured town, from all the windows of which looked forth famil- 
iar faces, old and young, but distorted from the memory of his 
boyhood by fear and wild despair. On one spot laid the body 
of his father, with his face to the earth ; and he woke at the 
cry of horror and rage that burst from his own lips, as he saw 
the rough, bloody hand of a soldier twisted in the loose hair 
of his elder sister, and the younger fainting in the arms of a 
scoundrel belonging to his own regiment. 

u He slept no more. As the gray morning broke, the troops 
appointed for the attack assembled without sound of trumpet 
or drum, and were silently formed in fitting order. The young 
ensign was in his place, w r eary and wretched after his misera- 
ble night. Before him he saw a great, broad-shouldered lieu- 
tenant, whose brawny hand seemed almost too large for his 
sword-hilt, and in any one of wdiose limbs played more animal 
life than in the whole body of the pale youth. The firm-set 
lips of this officer, and the fire of his eye, showed a concen- 
trated resolution, which, by the contrast, increased the misery 
of the ensign, and seemed, as if the stronger absorbed the 
weaker, to draw out from him the last fibres of self-posses- 
sion : the sight of unattainable determination, while it in* 


282 


ADELA CATIICART. 


creased the feeling of the arduousness of that which required 
such determination, threw him into the great gulf which lay 
between him and it. In this disorder of his nervous and men- 
tal condition, with a doubting conscience and a shrinking heart, j 
is it any wonder that the terrors which lay before him at the 
gap in those bristling walls, should draw near, and, making sud- 
den inroad upon his soul, overwhelm the government of a will 
worn out by the tortures of an unassured spirit ? What share 
fear contributed to unman him, it was impossible for him, in 
the dark, confused conflict of differing emotions, to determine ; 
but doubtless a natural shrinking from danger, there being no 
excitement to deaden its influence, and no hope of victory to en- 
courage to the struggle, seeing victory was dreadful to him as 
defeat, had its part in the sad result. Many men who have cour- 
age, are dependent on ignorance and a low state of the moral feel- 
ing for that courage ; and a further progress towards the de- 
velopment of the higher nature would, for a time at least, 
entirely overthrow it. Nor could such loss of courage be 
rightly designated by the name of cowardice. 

“ But, alas ! the colonel happened to fix his eyes upon him 
as he passed along the file ; and this completed his confusion. 

He betrayed such evident symptoms of perturbation, that that 
officer ordered him under arrest ; and the result was, that, 
chiefly for the sake of example to the army, he was, upon trial 
by court-martial, expelled from the service, and had his sword 
broken over his head. Alas for the delicate-minded youth ! 
Alas for the home-darling ! 

“ Long after, he found at the bottom of his chest the pieces of 
the broken sword, arid remembered that, at the time, he had lift- 
ed them from the ground and carried them away. But he could 
not recall under what impulse he had done so. Perhaps the 
agony he suffered, passing the bounds of mortal endurance, 
had opened for him a vista into the eternal, and had shown 
him, if not the injustice of the sentence passed upon him, yet 
his frsedom from blame, or, endowing him with dim prophetic 
vision, had given him the assurance that some day the stain would 
be wiped from his soul, and leave him standing clear before the 
tribunal of his own honor. Some feeling like this, I say, may 
have caused him, with a passing gleam of indignant protest, to 
lift the fragments from the earth, and carry them away ; even 


ADELA CATIICART. 


233 


as the friends of a so-called traitor may bear away his muti- 
lated body from the wheel. But, if such was the case, the vis- 
ion was soon overwhelmed and forgotten in the succeeding an- 
guish. He could not see that, in mercy to his doubting spirit, the 
question which had agitated his mind almost to madness, and 
which no results of the impending conflict could have settled for 
him, was thus quietly set aside for the time ; nor that, painful as 
was the dark, dreadful existence that he was now to pass in 
self-torment and moaning, it would go by, and leave his spirit 
clearer far, than if, in his apprehension, it had been stained with 
further blood-guiltiness, instead of the loss of honor. Years 
after, when he accidentally learned that on that very morning 
the whole of his company, with parts of several more, had, or 
ever they began to mount the breach, been blown to pieces by 
the explosion of a mine, he cried aloud in bitterness, ‘ Would 
God that my fear had not been discovered before I reached that 
spot ! 5 But surely it is better to pass into the next region 
of life having reaped some assurance, some firmness of charac- 
ter, determination of effort, and consciousness of the worth of 
life, in the present world ; so approaching the future steadily 
and faithfully, and if in much darkness and ignorance, yet not 
in the oscillations of moral uncertainty. 

“ Close upon the catastrophe followed a torpor, which lasted 
he did not know how long, and which wrapped in a thick fog 
all the succeeding events. For some time he can hardly be 
said to have had any conscious history. He awoke to life and 
torture when half way across the sea towards his native coun- 
try, where was no home any longer for him. To this point, 
and no further, could his thoughts return in after years. But 
the misery which he then endured is hardly to be understood, 
save by those of like delicate temperament with himself. All 
day long he sat silent in his cabin ; nor could any effort of the 
captain, or others on board, induce him to go on deck till night 
came on, when, under the starlight, he ventured into the open 
air. The sky soothed him then, he knew not how. For the 
face of nature is the face of God, and must bear expressions 
that can influence, though unconsciously to them, the most ig- 
norant and hopeless of his children. Often did he watch the 
clouds in hope of a storm, his spirit rising and falling as the 
sky darkened or cleared ; he longed, in the necessary selfish- 


234 


ADELA CATIICART. 


ness of such suffering, for a tumult of waters to swallow the 
vessel ; and only the recollection of how many lives were in- 
volved in its safety besides his own, prevented him from 
praying to God for lightning and tempest, borne on which he 
might dash into the haven of the other world. One night, fol- 
lowing a sultry calm day, he thought that Mercy had heard 
his unuttered prayer. The air and sea were intense darkness, 
till a light as intense for one moment annihilated it, and the suc- 
ceeding darkness seemed shattered with the sharp reports of 
the thunder that cracked without reverberation. He who had 
shrunk from battle with his fellow-men rushed to the mainmast, 
threw himself on his knees, and stretched forth his arms in speech- 
less energy of supplication ; but the storm passed away over- 
heard, and left him kneeling still by the uninjured mast. At 
length the vessel reached her port. He hurried on shore to 
bury himself in the most secret place he could find. Out of 
sight was his first, his only thought. Return to his mother he 
would not, he could not ; and, indeed, his friends never learned 
his fate, until it had carried him far beyond their reach. 

u For several weeks he lurked about like a malefactor, in 
low lodging-houses, in narrow streets of the seaport to which 
the vessel had borne him, heeding no one, and but little 
shocked at the strange society and conversation with which, 
though only in bodily presence, he had to mingle. These 
formed the subjects of reflection in after times ; and he came 
to the conclusion that, though much evil and much misery ex- 
ist, sufficient to move prayers and tears in those who love 
their kind, yet there is less of both than those looking down 
from a more elevated social position upon the weltering heap 
of humanity are ready to imagine, especially if they regard 
it likewise from the pedestal of self-congratulation on which a 
meagre type of religion has elevated them. But at length 
his little stock of money was nearly expended, and there was 
nothing that he could do, or learn to do, in this seaport. He 
felt impelled to seek manual labor, partly because he thought 
it more likely he could obtain that sort of employment, with- 
out a request for reference as to his character, which would lead 
to inquiry about his previous history ; and partly, perhaps, 
from an instinctive feeling that hard bodily labor would tend 
to lessen his inward suffering. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


235 


“ He left the town, therefore, at night-fall of 3 aly day, 
carrying a little bundle of linen, and the remains of hia 
money, somewhat augmented by the sale of various articles of 
clothing and convenience, which his change of life rendered 
superfluous and unsuitable. He directed his course north- 
wards, travelling principally by night, — so painfully did he 
shrink from the gaze even of footfarers like himself; and 
sleeping during the day in some hidden nook of wood or 
thicket, or under the shadow of a great tree in a solitary field. 
So fine was the season, that for three successive weeks he was 
able to travel thus without inconvenience, lying down when 
the sun grew hot in the forenoon, and generally waking 
when the first faint stars w r ere hesitating in the great darken- 
ing heavens that covered and shielded him. For above every 
cloud, above every storm, rise up, calm, clear, divine, the deep 
infinite skies ; they embrace the tempest even as the sunshine ; 
by their permission it exists within their boundless peace : 
therefore it cannot hurt, and must pass away, while there they 
stand as ever, domed up eternally, lasting, strong, and pure. 

“ Several times he attempted to get agricultural employ- 
ment ; but the whiteness of his hands and the tone of his voice 
not merely suggested unfitness for labor, but generated sus- 
picion as to the character of one who had evidently dropped 
from a rank so much higher, and was seeking admittance 
within the natural masonic boundaries and secrets and privi- 
leges of another. Disheartened somewhat, but hopeful, he 
journeyed on. I say hopeful ; for the blessed power of life in 
the universe, in fresh air and sunshine absorbed by active ex- 
ercise in winds, yea, in rain, though it fell but seldom, had 
begun to work its natural healing, soothing effect, upon his 
perturbed spirit. And there was room for hope in his new 
endeavor. As his bodily strength increased, and his health, 
considerably impaired by inward suffering, improved, the trou- 
ble of his soul became more endurable ; and in some measure 
to endure is to conquer and destroy. In proportion as the 
mind grows in the strength of patience, the disturber of its 
peace sickens and fades away. At length, one day, a widow 
lady in a village through which his road led him, gave him a 
day s work in her garden. lie labored hard and well, not- 
withstanding his soon-blistered hands, received his wages 


236 


ABELA CATIICART 


thankfully, and found a resting-place for the night on the low 
part of a hay-stack from which the upper portion had been 
cut away. Here he ate his supper of bread and cheese, 
pleased to have found such comfortable quarters, and soon fell 
fast asleep. 

“ When he awoke, the whole heavens and earth seemed to 
give a full denial to sin and sorrow. The sun was just mount- 
ing over the horizon, looking up the clear cloud-mottled sky. 
From millions of water-drops hanging on the bending stalks 
of grass sparkled his rays in varied refraction, transformed 
here to a gorgeous burning ruby, there to an emerald green 
as the grass, and yonder to a flashing sunny topaz. The 
chanting priest-lark had gone up from the low earth as soon 
as the heavenly light had begun to enwrap and illumine the 
folds of its tabernacle ; and had entered the high heavens with 
his offering, whence, unseen, he now dropped on the earth the 
sprinkled sounds of his overflowing blessedness. The poor 
youth rose but to kneel, and cry, from a bursting heart, 

£ Hast thou not, 0 Father, some care for me ? Canst thou 
not restore my lost honor? Can anything befall thy chil- 
dren for which thou hast no help? Surely, if the face of thy 
world lie not, joy and not grief is at the heart of the universe. 
Is there none for me ? ’ 

u The highest poetic feeling of which we are now conscious 
springs not from the beholding of perfected beauty, but from the 
mute sympathy which the creation with all its children mani- 
fests with us in the groaning and travailing which look for the 
sonsh p. Because of our need and aspiration, the snow-drop 
gives birth in our hearts to a loftier spiritual and poetic feel- 
ing than the rose most complete in form, color, and odor. The 
rose is of Paradise ; the snow-drop is of the striving, hoping, 
longing earth. Perhaps our highest poetry is the expression 
of our aspirations in the sympathetic forms of visible nature. 
Nor is this merely a longing for a restored paradise ; for 
even in the ordinary history of men, no man or woman that 
has fallen can be restored to the position formerly held. 
Such must rise to a yet higher place, whence they can behold 
their former standing far beneath their feet. They must be 
restored by the attainment of something better than they ever 
possessed before, or not at all. If the Law be a weariness, we 


ADELA CATHCART. 


237 


must escape it by taking refuge with the spirit, for not other- 
wise can we fulfil the law than by being above the law. To 
escape the overhanging rocks of Sinai, we must climb to its 
secret top. 

“ ‘ Is thy strait horizon dreary? 

Is thy foolish fancy chill ? 

Change the feet that have grown weary, 

Eor the wings that never will.’ 

“Thus, like one of the wandering knights searching the 
wide earth for the Sangreal, did he wander on, searching for 
his lost honor, or rather (for that he counted gone forever) 
seeking unconsciously for the peace of mind which had de- 
parted from him, and taken with it, not the joy merely, but 
almost the possibility, of existence. 

“At last, when his little store was all but exhausted, he 
was employed by a market-gardener, in the neighborhood of a 
large country town, to work in his, garden, and sometimes 
take his vegetables to market. With him he continued for a 
few weeks, and wished for no change; until, one day, driving 
his cart through the town, he saw approaching him an elderly 
gentleman, whom he knew at once, by his gait and carriage, 
to be a military man. Now he had never seen his uncle, the 
retired officer, but it struck him that this might be he ; and 
under the tyranny of his passion for concealment, he fancied 
that if it it were he, he might recognize him by some family 
likeness, — not considering the improbability of his looking at 
him. This fancy, with the painful effect which the sight of an 
officer, even in plain clothes, had upon him, recalling the tor- 
ture of that frightful day, so overcame him, that he found 
himself at the other end of an alley before he recollected that 
he had the horse and cart in charge. This increased his diffi- 
culty ; for now he dared not return, lest his inquiries after 
the vehicle, if the horse had strayed from the direct line, 
should attract attention, and cause interrogations which he 
would be unable to answer. The fatal want of self-possession 
seemed again to ruin him. He forsook the town by the near- 
est way, struck across the country to another line of road, and, 
before he was missed, was miles away, still in a northerly 
direction. 


238 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“But although he thus shunned the face of man, espe- 
cially of any one who reminded him of the past, the loss of his 
reputation in their eyes was not the cause of his inward 
grief That would have been comparatively powerless to dis- 
turb him, had he not lost his own respect. He quailed be- 
fore his own thoughts ; he was dishonored in his own eyes. 
His perplexity had not yet sufficiently cleared away to allow 
him to see the extenuating circumstances of the case ; not to 
say the fact, that the peculiar mental condition in which he 
was at the time removed the case quite out of the class of 
ordinary instances of cowardice. He condemned himself 
more severely than any of his judges would have dared ; re- 
membering that portion of his mental sensations which had 
savored of fear, and forgetting the causes which had pro- 
duced it. He judged himself a man stained with the foulest 
blot that could cleave to a soldier's name, a blot which nothing 
but death, not even death, could efface. But, inwardly con- 
demned and outwardly degraded, his dread of recognition was 
intense ; and feeling that he was in more danger of being dis- 
covered where the population was sparser, he resolved to hide 
himself once more in the midst of poverty ; and, with this 
view, found his way to one of the largest of the manufacturing 
towns. 

“He reached it during the strike of a great part of the 
workmen ; so that, though he found some difficulty in procur- 
ing employment, as might be expected from his ignorance of 
machine-labor, he yet was sooner successful than he would 
otherwise have been. Possessed of a natural aptitude for 
mechanical operations, he soon became a tolerable workman ; 
and he found that his previous education assisted to the fitting 
execution of those operations even which were most purely 
mechanical. 

“ He found also, at first, that the unrelaxing attention requi- 
site for the mastering of the many niceties of his work, of 
necessity drew his mind somewhat from its brooding over his 
misfortune, hitherto almost ceaseless. Every now and then, how- 
ever, a pang would shoot suddenly to his heart, and turn his face 
pale, even before his consciousness had time to inquire what was 
the matter. So by degrees, as attention became less necessary, 
and the nervo-mechanical action of his system increased with use, 


ADELA CATHCART. 


239 


his thoughts again returned to their old misery. He would 
wake at night in his poor room, with the feeling that a ghostly 
nightmare sat on his soul; that a want — a loss — miser- 
able, fearful — was present ; that something of his heart was 
gone from him ; and through the darkness he would hear the 
snap of the breaking sword, and lie for a moment overwhelmed 
beneath the assurance of the incredible fact. Could it be true 
that he was a coward ? that his honor was gone, and in its place 
a stain ? that he was a thing for men — and worse, for women 
— to point the finger at, laughing bitter laughter ? Never 
lover or husband could have mourned with the same desolation 
over the departure of the loved ; the girl alone, weeping 
scorching tears over her degradation, could resemble him in his 
agony, as he lay on his bed, and wept and moaned. 

“His sufferings had returned with the greater weight, that 
he was no longer upheld by the 1 divine air ’ and the open 
heavens, whose sunlight now only reached him late in an after- 
noon, as he stood at his loom, through windows so coated wdth 
dust that they looked like frosted glass ; showing, as it passed 
through the air to fall on the dirty floor, how the breath of life 
was thick with dust of iron and wood, and films of cotton; 
amidst which his senses were now too much dulled by custom 
to detect the exhalations from greasy wheels and overtasked 
human kind. Nor could he find comfort in the society of his 
fellow-laborers. True, it was a kind of comfort to have those 
near him who couli not know of his grief; but there was so 
little in common between them, that any interchange of thought 
was impossible. At least, so it seemed to him. Yet some- 
times his longing for human companionship would drive him 
out of his dreary room at night, and send him wandering 
through the lower part of the town, where he would gaze wist- 
fully on the miserable faces that passed him, as if looking for 
some, one — some angel, even there — to speak good will to 
his i/ungry heart. 

“ Once he entered one of those gin-palaces, which, like the 
golden gates of hell, entice the miserable to a worse misery, 
and seated himself close to a half-tipsy, good-natured wretch, 
who made room for him on a bench by the wall. He was com- 
forted even by this proximity to one who would not repel him. 
But soon the paintings of warlike action — of knights and 


240 


ADELA CATHCART. 


horses, and mighty deeds done with battle-axe and broad-sword, 
which adorned the panels all round — drove him forth even from 
this heaven of the damned ; yet not before the impious thought 
had arisen in his heart, that the brilliantly painted and sculp- 
tured roof, with the gilded vine-leaves and bunches of grapes 
trained up the windows, all lighted with the great shining 
chandeliers, was only a microcosmic repetition of the bright 
heavens and the glowing earth that overhung and surrounded 
the misery of man. But the memory of how kindly they had 
comforted and elevated him, at one period of his painful his- 
tory, not only banished the wicked thought, but brought him 
more quiet, in the resurrection of a past blessing, than he had 
known for some time. The period, however, was now at hand, 
when a new grief, followed by a new and more elevated activity, 
was to do its part towards the closing up of the fountain of 
bitterness. 

“ Amongst his fellow-laborers, he had for a short time taken 
some interest in observing a young woman, who had lately 
joined them. There was nothing remarkable about her, except 
what at first sight seemed a remarkable plainness. A slight 
scar over one of her rather prominent eyebrows increased this 
impression of plainness. But the first day had not passed, 
before he began to see that there was something not altogether 
common in those deep eyes ; and the plain look vanished before 
a closer observation, which also discovered, in the forehead and 
the lines of the mouth, traces of sorrow or other suffering. 
There was an expression, too, in the whole face of fixedness of 
purpose, without any hardness of determination. Pier coun- 
tenance altogether seemed the index to an interesting mental 
history. Signs of mental trouble were always an attraction to 
him ; in this case so great, that he overcame his shyness, and 
spoke to her one evening as they left the works. He often 
walked home with her after that; as, indeed, was natural, 
seeing that she occupied an attic in the same poor lodging- 
house in which he lived himself. The street did not bear the 
best character ; nor, indeed, w’ould the occupations of all the 
inmates of the house have stood investigation ; but so retiring 
and quiet was this girl, and so seldom did she go abroad after 
work-hours, that he had not discovered till then that she lived 
in the same street, not to say the same house, with himself. 


AD EL A CAT11CART. 


241 


‘ £ Ho 3<x>n learned her history} — a very common one as to 
outward events, but not surely insignificant because common. 
Her father and mother were both dead, and hence she had to 
find her livelihood alone, and amidst associations which were 
always disagreeable, and sometimes painful. Her quick 
womanly instinct must have discovered that he, too, had a his- 
tory ; for though, his mental prostration favoring the operation 
of outward influences, he had greatly approximated in appear- 
ance to those amongst whom he labored, there were yet signs, 
besides the educated accent of his speech, which would have 
distinguished him to an observer ; but she put no questions to 
him, nor made any approach towards seeking a return of the 
confidence she reposed in him. It was a sensible alleviation 
to his sufferings to hear her kind voice, and look in her gentle 
face, as they walked home together ; and at length the expec- 
tation of this pleasure began to present itself, in the midst of 
the busy, dreary work-hours, as the shadow of a heaven to 
close up the dismal, uninteresting day. 

u But one morning he missed her from her place, and a 
keener pain passed through him than he had felt of late ; for 
he knew that the Plague was abroad, feeding in the low, stag- 
nant places of human abode ; and he had but too much reason 
to dread that she might be now struggling in its grasp. He 
seized the first opportunity of slipping out and hurrying home. 
He sprang upstairs to her room. lie found the door locked, 
but heard a faint moaning within. To avoid disturbing her, 
while determined to gain an entrance, he went down for the key 
of his own door, with which he succeeded in unlocking hers, 
and so crossed her threshold for the first time. There she lay 
on her bed, tossing in pain, and beginning to be delirious. 
Careless of his own life, and feeling that he could not die 
better than in helping the only friend he had ; certain, like- 
wise, of the difficulty of finding a nurse for one in this disease 
and of her station in life ; and sure, likewise, that there could 
be no question of propriety either in the circumstances with 
which they were surrounded, nor in this case of terrible fever 
almost as hopeless for her as dangerous to him, he instantly 
began the duties of a nurse, and returned no more to his em- 
ployment. He had a little money in his possession, for he 
could not, in the way in which he lived, spend all his wages ; 

1G 


242 


ADELA CATHCART. 


bo he proceeded to make her as comfortable as he could, with 
all the pent-up tenderness of a loving heart finding an outlet 
at length. When a boy at home, he had often taken the place 
of nurse, and he felt quite capable of performing its duties. 
Nor was his boyhood far behind yet, although the trials he 
had come through made it appear an age since he had lost his 
light heart. So he never left her bedside, except to procure 
what was necessary for her. She was too ill to oppo33 any of 
his measures, or to seek to prohibit his presence. Indeed, by 
the time he had returned with the first medicine, she was in- 
sensible ; and she continued so through the whole of the 
following week, during which time he was constantly with 
her. 

u That action produces feeling is as often true as its con- 
verse ; and it is not surprising that, while he smoothed the 
pillow for her head, he should have made a nest in his heart 
for the helpless girl. Slowly and unconsciously he learned to 
love her. The chasm between his early associations and the 
circumstances in which he found her, vanished as he drew near 
to the simple, essential womanhood. His heart saw hers and 
loved it ; and he knew that, the centre once gained, he could, 
as from the fountain of life, as from the innermost secret of the 
holy place, the hidden germ of power and possibility, trans- 
form the outer intellect and outermost manners as he pleased. 
With what a thrill of joy, a feeling for long time unknown to 
him, and till now never known in this form or with this inten- 
sity, the thought arose in his heart that here lay one who some 
day would love him ; that he should have a place of refuge 
and rest; one to lie in his bosom and not despise him ! 1 For,’ 
said he to himself, ‘ I will call forth her soul from where it 
sleeps, like an unawakened echo in an unknown cave ; and like a 
child, of whom I once dreamed, that was mine, and to my de- 
light turned in fear from all besides, and clung to me, this soul of 
hers will run with bewildered, half-sleeping eyes, and tottering 
steps, but with a cry of joy on its lips, to me as the life-giver. 
She will cling to me and worship me. Then will I tell her, 
for she must know all, that I am low and contemptible ; that I 
am an outcast from the world, and that, if she receive me, she 
will be to me as God. And I will fall down at her feet and 
Dray her for comfort, for life, for restoration to myself ; and 


ADELA CATHCART. 


243 


she will throw herself beside me, and weep and love me, 1 
know. And we will go through life together, working hard, 
but for each other ; and when we die, she shall lead me into 
Paradise, as the prize her angel-hand found cast on a desert 
shore, from the storm of winds and waves which I was too 
weak to resist — and raised, and tended, and saved.’ Often 
did such thoughts as these pass through his mind while watch- 
ing by her bed ; alternated, checked, and sometimes destroyed, 
by the fears which attended her precarious condition, but 
returning with every apparent betterment or hopeful symp- 
tom. 

“ 1 will not stop to decide the nice question, how far the in- 
tention was right, of causing her to love him before she knew 
his story. If in the whole matter there was too much thought 
of self, my only apology is the sequel. One day, the ninth 
from the commencement of her illness, a letter arrived, ad- 
dressed to her ; which he, thinking he might prevent some in- 
convenience thereby, opened and read, in the confidence of 
that love which already made her and all belonging to her ap- 
pear his own. It was from a soldier, — her lover. It was 
plain that they had been betrothed before he left for the conti- 
nent a year ago ; but this was the first letter which he had written 
to her. It breathed changeless love, and hope, and confidence 
in her. He was so fascinated that he read it through without 
pause. 

“ Laying it down, he sat pale, motionless, almost inanimate. 
From the hard-won, sunny heights, he was once more cast 
down into the shadow of death. The second storm of his life 
began, howling and raging, with yet more awful lulls between. 

4 Is she not mine ?’ he said, in agony. 1 Do I not feel that 
she is mine? Who will watch over her as I? Who will 
kiss her soul to life as I ? Shall she be torn away from me, 
when my soul seems to have dwelt with hers forever in an eter- 
nal house ? But have I not a right to her ? Have I not given 
my life for hers ? Is he not a soldier, and are there not many 
chances that he may never return ? And it may be, that al- 
though they were engaged in word, soul has never touched soul 
with them ; their love has never reached that point where it 
passes from the mortal to the immortal, the indissoluble ; and 
bo, in a sense, she may yet be free. Will he do for her what I 


244 


ADELA CATHCART. 


will do? Shall this precious heart of hers, in which 1 see 
the buds of so man y beauties, be left to wither and die ? ’ 

11 But here the voice within him cried out, 1 Art thou the 
disposer of destinies? Wilt thou, in a universe where the vis- 
ible God hath died for the Truth’s sake, do evil that a good, 
which he might neglect or overlook, may be gained ? Leave 
thou her to him, and do ,hou right.’ And he said within him- 
self, ‘ Now is the real trial for my life ! Shall I conquer or 
no ? 5 And his heart awoke and cried, 1 1 will. God forgive 
me for wronging the poor soldier ! A brave man, brave at 
least, is better for her than I.’ 

“A great strength arose within him, and lifted him up to 
depart. 4 Surely I may kiss her once,’ he said. For the cri- 
sis was over, and she slept. He stooped towards her face, but 
before he had reached her lips he saw her eyelids tremble ; 
and he who had longed for the opening of those eyes, as of the 
gates of heaven, that she might love him, stricken now with 
fear lest she should love him, fled from her, before the eyelids 
that hid such strife and such victory from the unconscious 
maiden had time to unclose. But it was agony, — quietly to 
pack up his bundle of linen in the room below, when he knew 
she was lying awake above with her dear, pale face, and living 
eyes ! What remained of his money, except a few shillings, 
he put up in a scrap of paper, and went out with his bundle in 
his hand, first to seek a nurse for his friend, and then to go he 
knew not whither. He met the factory people with whom he 
had worked, going to dinner, and amongst them a girl who had 
herself but lately recovered from the fever, and was yet hardly 
able for work. She was the only friend the sick girl had seemed 
to have amongst the w r omen at the factory, and she was easily 
persuaded to go and take charge of her. He put the money 
in her hand, begging her to use it for the invalid, and promis- 
ing to send the equivalent of her wages for the time he thought 
she would have to wait on her. This he easily did by the sale 
of a ring, which, besides his mother’s watch, was the only 
article of value he had retained. He begged her likewise 
not to mention his name in the matter ; and was foolish enough 
to expect that she would entirely keep the promise she made 
him. 

“ Wandering along the street, purposeless now and bereft, 


ADELA CATHCART. 


245 


he spied a recruiting party at the door of a public house ; and 
on coming nearer, found, by one of those strange coincidences 
which do occur in life, and which have possibly their root in 
a hidden and wondrous law, that it was a. party, perhaps a 
remnant, of the very regiment iri which he had himself served, 
and in which his misfortune had befallen him. Almost simul- 
taneously with the shock which the sight of the well-known 
number on the soldiers’ knapsacks gave him, arose in his mind 
the romantic, ideal thought, of enlisting in the ranks of this 
same regiment, and recovering, as private soldier and unknown, 
that honor which as officer he had lost. To this determination, 
the new necessity in which he now stood for action and change 
of life, doubtless contributed, though unconsciously. He 
offered himself to the sergeant ; and, notwithstanding that his 
dress indicated a mode of life unsuitable as the antecedent to a 
soldier’s, his appearance, and the necessity for recruits com- 
bined, led to his easy acceptance. 

“ The English armies were employed in expelling the enemy 
from an invaded and helpless country. Whatever might be 
the political motives which had induced the government to this 
measure, the young man was now able to feel that he could 
go and fight, individually and for his part, in the cause of 
liberty. He w r as free to possess his own motives for joining 
in the execution of the schemes of those who commanded his 
commanders. 

“ With a heavy heart, but with more of inward hope and 
strength than he had ever known before, he marched with his 
comrades to the seaport and embarked. It seemed to him that, 
because he had done right in his last trial, here was a new, 
glorious chance held out to his hand. True, it was a terrible 
change, to pass from a woman in whom he had hoped to find 
healing, into the society of rough men, to march with them, 

‘ mit gleichem Tritt und Schriit , ’ up to the bristling bayonets 
or the horrid vacancy of the cannon-mouth. But it was the 
only cure for the evil that consumed his life. 

“ He reached the army in safety, and gave himself, with 
religious assiduity, to the smallest duties of his new position. 
No one had a brighter polish on his arms, or whiter belts than 
he. In the necessary movements, he soon became precise to a 
degree that attracted the attention of his officers; while his 


246 


ADELA CATHCART. 


character was remarkable for all the virtues belonging to a per- 
fect soldier. 

“ One day, as he stood sentry, he saw the eyes of his colo- 
nel intently fixed on him. He felt his lip quiver, but he 
compressed and stilled it, and tried to look as unconscious as 
he could ; which effort was assisted by the formal bearing 
required by his position. Now the colonel, such had been the 
losses of the regiment, had been promoted from a lieutenancy 
in the same, and had belonged to it at the time of the ensign’s 
degradation. Indeed, had not the changes in the regiment 
been so great, he could hardly have escaped so long without 
discovery. But the poor fellow would have felt that his name 
was already free of reproach, if he had seen what followed on 
the close inspection which had awakened his apprehensions, 
and which, in fact, had convinced the colonel of his identity 
with the disgraced ensign. With a hasty and less soldierly 
step than usual, the colonel entered his tent, threw himself on 
his bed, and wept like a child. When he rose he was over- 
heard to say these words, — and these only escaped his lips, 
— ‘ He is nobler than I.’ 

“ But this officer showed himself worthy of commanding 
such men as this private ; for right nobly did he understand 
and meet his feelings. He uttered no word of the discovery 
he had made, till years afterwards ; but it soon began to be re- 
marked that whenever anything arduous, or in any manner 
distinguished, had to be done, this man was sure to be of the 
party appointed. In short, as often as he could, the colonel 
‘set him in the fore-front of the battle.’ Passing through all 
with wonderful escape, he was soon as much noticed for his 
reckless bravery, as hitherto for his precision in the discharge 
of duties bringing only commendation and not honor. But his 
final lustration was at hand. 

“ A great part of the army was hastening, by forced marches, 
to raise the siege of a town which was already on the point of 
falling into the hands of the enemy. Forming one of a recon- 
noitring party, which preceded the main body at some con- 
siderable distance, he and his companions came suddenly upon 
one of the enemy's outposts, occupying a high, and on one 
side precipitous rock, a short way from the town, which it com- 
manded. Betreat was impossible, for they were already dis- 


ADELA r ATIICAllT. 


247 


cohered, and the b’llots were falling amongst them like the 
first of a bail-s-to^m The only possibility of escape remaining 
for them was a nearly hopeless improbability. It lay in forc- 
ing the post on this steep rock ; which if they could do before 
assistance came to the enemy, they might, perhaps, be able to 
hold out, by means of its defences, till the arrival of the army. 
Their position was at once understood by all ; and, by a sud- 
den, simultaneous impulse, they found themselves half-way up 
the steep ascent, and in the struggle of a close conflict, with- 
out being aware of any order to that effect from their officers. 
But their courage was of no avail ; the advantages of the place 
were too great ; and in a few minutes the whole party w r as cut 
to pieces, or stretched helpless on the rock. Our youth had 
fallen amongst the foremost ; for a musket-ball had grazed his 
skull, and laid him insensible. 

“ But consciousness slowly returned, and he succeeded at 
last in raising himself and looking around him. The place 
was deserted. A fe^ of his friends, alive, but grievously 
■wounded, lay near hini. The rest were dead. It appeared 
that learning the proximity of the English forces from this 
rencontre with part of their advanced guard, and dreading lest 
the town, which was on the point of surrendering, should after 
all be snatched from their grasp, the commander of the enemy’s 
forces had ordered an immediate and general assault ; and had 
for this purpose recalled from their outposts the whole of his 
troops thus stationed, that he might make the attempt with the 
utmost strength he could accumulate. 

“ As the youth’s power of vision returned, he perceived, 
from the height where he lay, that the town was already in the 
hands of the enemy. But looking down into the level space 
immediately below him, he started to his feet at once ; for a 
girl, bare-headed, was fleeing towards the rock, pursued by 
several soldiers. 1 Aha ! ’ said he, divining her purpose, — the 
soldiers behind and the rock before her, — * I will help you to 
die ! ’ And he stooped and wrenched from the dead fingers 
of a sergeant the sword which they clenched by the bloody 
hilt. A new throb of life pulsed through hiq to his very 
finger-tips ; and on the brink of the unseen world he stood, 
with the blood rushing through his veins in a ^ild dance of 
excitement. One who lay near him wounded, but recovered 


248 


ADELA CATHCART. 


afterwards, said that he looked like one inspired. With a 
keen eye he watched the chase. The girl drew nigh ; and 
rushed up the path near which he was standing. Close on 
her footsteps came the soldiers, the distance gradually lessening 
between them. 

“ Not many paces higher up was a narrower part of the 
ascent, where the path was confined by great stones, or pieces 
of rock. Here had been the chief defence in the preceding 
assault, and in it lay many bodies of his friends. Thither he 
went and took his stand. 

“ On the girl came, over the dead, with rigid hands and fly- 
ing feet, the bloodless skin drawn tight on her features, and her 
eyes awfully large and wild. She did not see him, though she 
bounded past so near that her hair flew in his eyes. *' Never 
mind!’ said he; ‘we shall meet soon.’ And he stepped into 
the narrow path just in time to face her pursuers, — between 
her and them. Like the red lightning the bloody sword fell, 
and a man beneath it. Cling ! clang ! went the echoes in the 
rocks — and another man was down ; for, in his excitement, he 
was a destroying angel to the breathless pursuers. His stature 
rose, his chest dilated ; and as the third foe fell dead, the girl 
was safe ; for her body lay a broken, empty, but undesecrated 
templej at the foot of the rock. That moment his sword flew 
in shivers from his grasp. The next instant he fell pierced to 
the heart ; and his spirit rose triumphant, free, strong, and 
calm, above the stormy world, which at length lay vanquished 
beneath him.” 

“ A capital story ! ” cried our host, the moment the curate 
had ceased reading. “ But you should not have killed him. 
You should have made a general of him. By heaven ! he 
deserved it.” 

Mr. Armstrong was evidently much pleased that the colonel 
so heartily sympathized with his tale. And every one else added 
some words of commendation. I could not help thinking with 
myself that he had only embodied the story of his own life in 
other more striking forms But I knew that, if I said so, he 
would laugh at me, and answer that all he had done was quite 
easy to do, — he had found no difficulty in it : whereas this man 


ADELA CATHCART. 


249 


was a hero, and did the thing that he found very difficult 
indeed. Still I was sure that the story was" at least the out- 
growth of his own mind. 

“ May we ask,” I said, “how much of the tale is fact?” 

“lam sorry it is not all fact,” he answered. 

“ Tell us how much, then,” I said. 

u Well, I will tell what made me write it. I heard an old 
lady at a dinner-table mention that she had once known a 
young officer who had his sword broken over his head, and was 
dismissed from the army for cowardice. I began trying first 
to understand his feelings : then to see how the thing could 
have happened; and then to discover what could be done for 
him. And hence the story. That was all, I am sorry to say.” 

“ I thought as much,” I rejoined. 

“ Will you excuse me if I venture to make a remark ? ” said 
Mrs. Bloomfield. 

“With all my heart,” answered the curate. 

“ It seemed to me that there was nothing Christian in the 
story. And I cannot help feeling that a clergyman might, 
therefore, have done better.” 

“ I allow that in words there is nothing Christian,” answered 
Mr. Armstrong ; “lam quite ready to allow also that it might 
have been better if something of the kind you mean had been 
expressed in it. The whole thing, however, is only a sketch. 
But I cannot allow that, in spirit and scope, it is anything 
other than Christian, or indeed anything but Christian. It 
seems to me that the whole might be used as a Christian para- 
ble.” 

While the curate spoke, I had seen Adela’s face flush ; but 
the cause was not visible to me. As he uttered the last words, 
a hand was laid on his shoulder, and Harry’s voice said : — 

“ At your parables again, Ralph ? ” 

He had come in so gently that the only sign of his entrance 

had been the rose-lisdit on Adela’s cheeks. — Was he the sun? 
© 

And was she a cloud of the east ? 

“Glad to see you safe amongst us again,” said the colonel, 
backed by almost every one of the company. 

“ What’s your quarrel with my parables, Harry? ” said the 
curate. 

“ Quarrel? None at all. They are the delight of my heart. 


£50 


ADELA CATHCART. 


I only wish you would give our friends one of your best, — 1 
‘ The Castle,’ for instance.” 

“ Not yet a while, Harry. It is not my turn for some time, 
I hope. Perhaps Miss Cathcart will be tired of the whole affair, 
before it comes round to me again.” 

“ Then I shall deserve to be starved of stories all the rest 
of my life,” answered Adela, laughing. 

“ If you will allow me, then,” said Harry, “ I will give you 
a parable, called ‘The Lost Church,’ from the German poet, 
Uhland.” 

“ Softly, Harry,” said his brother ; “ you are ready enough 
with what is not yours to give ; but where is your own story 
that you promised, and which indeed we should have a right to 
demand, whether you had promised it or not ? ” 

“I am working at it, Ralph, in my spare moments, which 
are not very many ; and I want to choose the right sort of 
night to tell it in, too. This one wouldn’t do at all. There’s 
no moon.” 

“ If it is a horrid story, it is a pity you did not read it 
last time, before you set out to cross the moor.” 

“ Oh, that night would not have done at all. A night like 
that drives all fear out of one’s head. But, indeed, it is not 
finished yet. — May I repeat the parable now, Miss Cathcart?” 

“ What do you mean by a parable, Mr. Henry? ” inter- 
rupted Mrs. Cathcart. “It sounds rather profane to me.” 

“ I mean a picture in words, where more is meant than meets 
the ear.” 

“ But why call it a parable ? ” 

“ Because it is one.” 

“ Why not speak in plain words then ? ” 

“ Because a good parable is plainer than the plainest word*. 
You remember what Tennyson says, — that 

“ ‘ truth embodied in a tale 
Shall enter in at lowly doors’?” 

“Goethe,” said the curate, “has a little parable about 
poems, which is equally true about parables : — 

“ ‘ Poems are painted window-panes. 

If one looks from the square into the church, 

Du«k and dimness are his gains, — 

Sir Philistine is left in the lurch. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


251 


T-ie sight, so seen, may well enrage him, 

Nor any words henceforth assuage him. 

But come just inside what conceals ; 

Cross the holy threshold quite — 

All at once, ’tis rainbow-bright; 

Device and story flash to light ; 

A gracious splendor truth reveals. 

This, to God’s children, is full measure; 

It edifies and gives them pleasure.’ ” 

"I can’t follow that,” said Adela. 

11 1 will write it oat for you,” said Harry; “ and then you 
will be able to follow it perfectly.” 

“ Thank you very much. Now for your parable.” 

“It is called i * * 4 The Lost Church 5 ; and I assure you it ia 
full of meaning.” 

“ I hope I shall be able to find it out.” 

“ You will find the more the longer you think about it. 

“ ‘ Oft in the far wood, overhead, 

Tones of a bell are heard obscurely ; 

How old the sounds no sage has said, 

Or yet explained the story surely. 

From the lost church, the legend saith, 

Out on the winds, the ringeth goeth; 

Once full of pilgrims was the path, — 

Now, where to find it, no one knoweth. 

“ * Deep in Tie wood I lately went, 

Where no foot-trodden path is lying; 

From the time’s woe and discontent, 

My heart went forth to God in sighing. 

When in the forest’s wild repose, 

I heard the ringing somewhat clearer; 

The higher that my longing rose, 

Downward it rang the fuller, nearer. 

“ * So on its thoughts my heart did brood, 

My sense was with the sound so busy, 

That I have never understood 

How I clomb up the height so dizzy. 

To me it seemed a hundred years 

Had passed away in dreaming, sighing, — 

When lo ! high o’er the clouds, appears 
An open space in sunlight lying. 


i “Tlie heaven, dark-blue, above it bowed; 

The sun shone o’er it, large and glowing; 

Beneath, a minster’s structure proud 

Stood in the gold light, golden showing. 


ADELA CAT1ICART. 


ono 


It seemed on those great clouds, sun-clear. 

Aloft to hover, as on pinions ; 

Its spire-point seemed to disappear, 

Melting away in high dominions. , 

“ ‘ The bell’s clear tones, entrancing, full, — 

The quivering tower, they, booming, swung it; 
No human hand the rope did pull, — 

The holy storm-winds sweeping rung it, 

The storm, the stream, came down, came near. 
And seized my heart with longing holy ; 

Into the church I went, with fear, 

With trembling step, and gladness lowly. 

“ ‘ The threshold crossed — I cannot show 

What in me moved : words cannot paint it. 
Both dark and clear, the windows glow 
With noble forms of martyrs sainted. 

I gazed and saw — transfigured glory ! 

The pictures swell and break their barriers j 
I saw the world and all its story 
Of holy women, holy warriors. 

“ ‘ Down at the altar I sank slowly ; 

My heart was like the face of Stephen, 

Aloft, upon the arches holy. 

Shone out in gold the glow of heaven. 

I prayed ; I looked again ; and lo ! 

The dome’s high sweep had flown asunder; 

The heavenly gates wide open go, 

And every veil unveils a wonder. 

“ ‘ What gloriousness I then beheld, 

Kneeling in prayer, silent and wondrous ; 

What sounds triumphant on me swelled, 

Like organs and like trumpets thunderous, — 
My mortal words can never tell ; 

But who for such is sighing sorest, 

Let him give heed unto the bell 
That dimly soundeth in the forest.’ ” 


“ Splendid ! ” cried the school-master, with enthusiasm. 

“ What is the lost church? ” asked Mrs. Cathcart. 

“ No one can tell, but him who finds it, like the poet,* 1 
answered the curate. 

“ But I suppose you at least consider it the Church of Eng- 
land,” returned the lady, with one of her sweetest attempts at 
a smile. 

u God forbid! ” exclaimed the clergyman, with a kind of 
sacred horror. 




ADELA CATHCART. 


253 


‘‘Not the Church of England ! ” cried Mrs. Cathcart, in a 
tone of horror likewise, dashed with amazement. 

“ No, madam, — the Church of God ; the great cathedral- 
church of the universe ; of which Church I trust the Church 
of England is a little Jesus-chapel.” 

“ God bless you, Mr. Armstrong ! ” cried the school-master. 

The colonel likewise showed some sign of emotion. Mrs. 
Cathcart looked set-down and indignant. Percy stared. Ade- 
la and Harry looked at each other. 

“ Whoever finds God in his own heart,” said the clergyman, 
solemnly, “ has found the lost Church, — the Church of God.” 

And he looked at Adela as he spoke. She cast down her 
eyes, and thanked him with her heart. 

A silence followed. 

“ Harry, you must come up with your story next time — 
positively,” said Mr. Armstrong, at length. 

“ I don’t think I can I cannot undertake to do so, at all 
events.” 

“ Then what is to be done? — I have it. Lizzie, my dear, 
you have got that story you wrote once for a Christmas paper, 
have you not ? ” 

“ Yes, I have, Ralph ; but that is far too slight a thing to 
be wortli reading here.” 

“ It will do at least to give Harry a chance for his. I 
mustn't praise it ‘afore fowk,’ you know.” 

“But it was never quite finished, — at least so people said.” 

“ Well, you can finish it to-morrow well enough.” 

“ I haven’t time.” 

“You needn’t be working at that — all day long and every 
day. There is no such hurry.” 

The blank indicates a certain cessation of intelligible sound 
occasioned by the close application of Lizzie’s palm to Ralph’s 
lips. She did not dare, however, to make any further oppo- 
sition to his request. 

“ I think we have some claim on you, Mrs. Armstrong,” 
said the host. “ It will be my sister’s turn next time, and 
after that Percy’s.” 

Percy gave a great laugh ; and his mother said, with a slight 
toss of her head : — 

“ I am not so fond of being criticised myself! ” 


254 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“Has criticism been your occupation, Mrs. Cathcart,” I j 
said, “ during our readings? If so, then indeed we have a 
claim on you greater than I had supposed.*' 

She could not hide some degree of confusion and annoyance. 
But I had had my revenge, and I had no wish for her story ; 
so I said nothing more. 

We parted with the understanding that Mrs. Armstrong 
would read her story on the following Monday. 

Again, before he took his leave, Mr. Harry had a little ther- 
apeutic tete-a-tete with Miss Adela, which lasted about two 
minutes, Mrs. Cathcart watching them every second of the time, 
with her eyes as round and wide as she could make them, for 
they w~ere by nature very long, and by art very narrow, for 
she rarely opened them to any width at all. They were not 
pleasant eyes, those eyes of Mrs. Cathcart’s. Percy’s were 
like them, only better, for though they had a reddish tinge he 
did open them wider. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

MY UNCLE PETER. 

“Why don’t you write a story, Percy?” said his mothei 
to him next morning at breakfast. 

“ Plenty of quill-driving at Somerset-House, mother. I pre- 
fer something else in the holidays.” 

“But I don’t like to see you showing to disadvantage, j 
Percy,” said his uncle, kindly. “ Why don’t you try? ” 

“ The doctor-fellow hasn’t read one yet. And I don’t think 
he will.” 

“ Have patience. I think he will.” 

“I don’t care. I don't want to hear it. It’s all a con- 
founded bore. They’re nothing but goody humbug, or senti- j 
mental whining. His would be sure to smell of black draught. 
I’m not partial to drugs.” 

The mother frowned, and the uncle tried to smile kindly and 
excusingly. Percy rose and left the room. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


255 


u You see he’s jealous of the doctor,” remarked his mother, 
with an upward toss of the head. 

The colonel did not reply, and I ventured no remark. 

There is a vein of essential vulgarity in both the brothers,” 
said the lady. 

u I don’t think so,” returned the colonel; and there the 
conversation ended. 

Adela was practising at her piano the greater part of the day. 
The weather would not admit of a walk. 

When we were all seated once more for our reading, and 
Mrs. Armstrong had her paper in her hand, after a little delay 
of apparent irresolution, she said all at once : — 

“ Ralph, I can’t read. Will you read it for me?” 

“ Do try to read it yourself, my dear,” said her husband. 

“I am sure I shall break down,” she answered. 

“ If you were able to write it, surely you are able to read 
it,” said the colonel. “ I know what my difficulty would be.” 

“ It is a very different thing to read one’s own writing. I 
could read anything else well enough. Will you read it for 
me, Henry ? ” 

“ With pleasure, if it must be any other than yourself. I 
know your handwriting nearly as well as my own. It’s none 
of your usual lady-hands, — all point and no character. But 
what do you say, Ralph ? ” 

“ Read it by all means, if she will have it so. The com- 
pany has had enough of my reading. It will be a change of 
voice at least.” 

I saw that Adela looked pleasedly expectant. 

“ Pray don’t look for much,” said Mrs. Armstrong, in a 
pleading tone. 11 1 assure you it is nothing, or at best a mere 
trifle. But I could not help myself, without feeling obstinate. 
And my husband lays so much on the cherished obstinacy of 
Lady Macbeth, holding that to be the key to her character, that 
he has terrified me from every indulgence of mine.” 

She laughed very sweetly ; and, her husband joining in the 
laugh, all further hindrance was swept away in the music of 
their laughter ; and Harry, taking the papers from his sister’s 
hand, commenced at once. It was partly in print, and partly 
in manuscript. 


256 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“MY UNCLE PETER. 

“I will tell you the story of my Uncle Peter, who waa 
born on Christmas day. He was very anxious to die on Christ- 
mas day as well ; but I must confess that was rather ambitious 
in Uncle Peter. Shakespeare is said to have been born on St. 
George’s day, and there is some ground for believing that he 
died on St. George’s day. He thus fulfilled a cycle. But we 
cannot expect that of any but great men, and Uncle Peter was 
not a great man, though I think I shall be able to show that lie 
was a good man. The only pieces of selfishness I ever discovered 
in him were, his self-gratulation at having been born on Christ- 
mas day, and the ambition with regard to his death, which I 
have just recorded ; and that this selfishness was not of a kind 
to be very injurious to his fellow-men, I think I shall be able 
to show as well, 

“ The first remembrance that I have of him is his taking 
me one Christmas eve to the largest toy-shop in London, and 
telling me to choose any toy whatever that I pleased. He 
little knew the agony of choice into which this request of his — 
for it was put to me as a request, in the most polite, loving 
manner — threw his astonished nephew. If a general right 
of choice from the treasures of the whole world had been 
unanimously voted me, it could hardly have cast me into 
greater perplexity. I wandered about, staring like a distracted 
ghost at the ‘ wealth of Ormus and of Ind,’ displayed about 
me. Uncle Peter followed me with perfect pat : ence; nay, I 
believe, with a delight that equalled my perplexity, for, every 
now and then, when I looked round to him with a silent appeal 
for sympathy in the distressing dilemma into which he had 
thrown me, I found him rubbing his hands and spiritually 
chuckling over his victim. Nor would he volunteer the least 
assistance to save me from the dire consequences of too much 
liberty. IIow long I was in making up my mind I cannot tell ; 
but as I look back upon this splendor of my childhood, I feel afi 
if I must have wandered for weeks through interminable for- 
est-alleys of toy-bearing trees. As often as I read the story 
of Aladdin, — and I read it now and then still, for I have 
children about, and their books about, — the subterranean 
orchard of jewels always brings back to my inward vision the 
inexhaustible riches of the toy-shop to which Uncle Peter took 


ADELA CATHCART. 


257 


me that Christmas eve. As soon as, in despair of choosing 
well, I had made a desperate plunge at decision, my Uncle 
Peter, as if to forestall any supervention of repentance, began 
buying like a maniac, giving me everything that took his 
fancy or mine, till we and our toys nearly filled the cab which 
he called to take us home. 

“ Uncle Peter was a little, round man, not very fat, resem- 
bling both in limbs and features an overgrown baby. And I 
believe the resemblance was not merely an external one ; for, 
though his intellect was quite up to par, he retained a degree of 
simplicity of character and of tastes that was not childlike only, 
but bordered, sometimes, upon the childish. To look at him, 
you could not have fancied a face or a figure with less of the 
romantic about them ; yet I believe that the whole region of 
his brain was held in fee-simple, whatever that may mean, by 
a race of fairy architects, who built aerial castles therein, 
regardless of expense. His imagination was the most distin- 
guishing feature of his character. And. to hear him defend 
any of his extravagances, it would appear that he considered 
himself especially privileged in that respect. ‘ Ah, my dear,’ 
he would say to my mother when she expostulated with him 
on making some present far beyond the small means he at that 
time possessed, 1 ah, my dear, you see I was born on Christmas 
day.’ Many a time he would come in from town, where he 
was a clerk in a merchant’s office, with the water running out 
of his boots, and his umbrella carefully tucked under his arm; 
and we would know very well that he had given the last cop- 
pers he had, for his omnibus home, to some beggar or crossing- 
sweeper, and had then been so delighted with the pleasure he had 
given, that he forgot to make the best of it by putting up his 
umbrella. Home he would trudge, in his worn suit of black, 
with his steel watch-chain and bunch of ancestral seals swing- 
ing and ringing from his fob, and the rain running into his 
trowsers pockets, to the great endangerment of the health of 
his cherished old silver watch, which never went wrong, because 
it was put right every day by St. Paul’s. He was quite poor 
then, as I have said. I do not think he had more than a hun- 
dred pounds a year, and he must have been five and thirty. I 
suppose his employers showed their care for the morals of their 
clerks, by never allowing them any margin to misspend. But 
17 


258 


ADELA CATHCART. 


Uncle Peter lived in constant hope and expectation of some 
unexampled good luck befalling him; ‘ for/ said he, ‘I was 
born on Christmas day.’ 

“ He was never married. When people used to jest with 
him about being an old bachelor, lie used to smile, for any- 
thing would make him smile ; but I was a very little boy indeed 
when I began to observe that the smile on such occasions was 
mingled with sadness, and that Uncle Peter’s face looked very 
much as if he were going to cry. But he never said anything 
on the subject, and not even my mother knew whether he had 
had any love-story or not. I have often wondered whether his 
goodness might not come in part from his having lost some one 
very dear to him, and having his life on earth purified by the 
thoughts of her life in heaven. But I never found out. Af- 
ter his death, — for he did die, though not on Christmas day, 
• — I found a lock of hair folded in paper with a date on it, — 
that was all, — in a secret drawer of his old desk. The date 
was far earlier than my first recollections of him. I reveren- 
tially burnt it with fire. 

“ He lived in lodgings by himself not far from our house; 
and, when not with us, was pretty sure to be found seated in 
his easy-chair, for he was fond of his simple comforts, beside a 
good fire, reading by the light of one candle. He had his tea 
always as soon as he came home, and some buttered toast or a 
hot muffin, of which he was sure to make me eat three-quarters 
if I chanced to drop in upon him at the right hour, which, I 
am rather ashamed to say, I not unfrequently did. He dared 
not order another, as I soon discovered. Yet I fear that did 
not abate my appetite for what there was. You see, I was 
never so good as Uncle Peter. When he had finished his tea, 
he turned his chair to the fire and read, — what do you think? 
Sensible Travels and Discoveries, or Political Economy, or 
Popular Geology? No: Fairy Tales, as many as he could 
lay hold of ; and when they failed him, Romances or Novels. 
Almost anything in this way would do that was not bad. 1 
believe he had read every word of Richardson’s novels, and 
most of Fielding’s and De Foe’s. But once I saw him throw 
a volume in the fire, which he had been fidgeting over for a 
wdiile. I was just finishing a sum I had brought across to him 
to help me with. I looked up and saw the volume in the fire. 


ADELA CATIICART. 


259 


The heat made it writhe open, and I saw the author’s name, 
and that was Sterne. He had bought it at a book-stall as he 
came home. He sat awhile, and then got up and took down 
his Bible and began reading a chapter in the New Testament, 
as if for an antidote to the book he had destroyed.” 

“ I put in that piece,” said the curate. 

“ But Uncle Peter’s luck came at last, — at least, he thought 
it did, when he received a lawyer's letter announcing the demise 
of a cousin of whom he had heard little for a great many years, 
although they had been warm friends while at school together. 
This cousin had been brought up to some trade in the wood 
line, — had been a cooper or a carpenter, and had somehow or 
other got landed in India, and, though not in the Company’s 
service, had contrived in one way and another to amass what 
might be called a large fortune in any rank of life. I am 
afraid to mention the amount of it, lest it should throw dis- 
credit on my story. The whole of this fortune he left to Uncle 
Peter, for he had no nearer relation, and had always remem- 
bered him with affection. 

“ I happened to be seated beside my uncle when the lawyer’s 
letter arrived. He was reading ‘Peter Wilkins.’ He laid 
down the book with reluctance, thinking the envelope contained 
some advertisement of slaty coal for his kitchen-fire, or cottony 
silk for his girls’ dresses. Fancy my surprise when my little 
uncle jumped up on his chair, and thence on the table, upon 
which he commenced a sort of demoniac hornpipe. But that 
sober article of furniture declined giving its support to such 
proceedings for a single moment, and fell with an awful crash 
to the floor. My uncle was dancing amidst its ruins like Nero 
in blazing Rome, when he was reduced to an awful sense of 
impropriety by the entrance of his landlady. I was sitting 
in open-mouthed astonishment at my uncle s extravagance, 
when he suddenly dropped into his chair like a lark into its 
nest, leaving heaven silent. But silence did not reign long. 

Well! Mr. Belper,’ began his landlady, in a tone as 
difficult of description as it is easy of conception, for her fists 
had already planted themselves in her own opposing sides. But, 
to my astonishment, my uncle was not in the least awed, 


^60 


ADELA CATHCART. 


although I am sure, however much be tried to bide it, that I 
have often seen him tremble in bis shoes at the distant roar of 
this tigress. But it is wonderful how much courage a pocket* 
ful of sovereigns will give. It is far better for rousing the 
pluck of a man than any number of bottles of wine in bis bead. 
What a brave thing a whole fortune must be then ! 

“ 1 Take that rickety old thing away,’ said my uncle. 

11 1 Rickety, Mr. Belper ! I'm astonished to hear a decent 
gentleman like you slander the very table as you’ve eaten off, 
for the last — 5 

u 1 We won’t be precise to a year, ma'am,’ interrupted my 
uncle. 

“ 1 And if you will have little scapegraces of neveys into 
my house to break the furniture, why, them as breaks pays, 
Mr. Belper.’ 

“ ‘Very well. Of course I will pay for it. I broke it 
myself, ma’am ; and if you don’t get out of my room I'll — ’ 

“ Uncle Peter jumped up once more, and made for the heap 
of ruins, in the middle of the floor. The landlady vanished 
in a moment, and my uncle threw himself again into his chair, 
and absolutely roared with laughter. 

“ 1 Shan't we have rare fun, Charlie, my boy? ’ said he at 
last, and went off into another fit of laughter. 

“ ‘Why, uncle, what is the matter with you?’ I managed 
to say, in utter bewilderment. 

“ ‘ Nothing but luck, Charlie. It's gone to my head. I'm 
not used to it, Charlie, that's all. I'll come all right by and 
by. Bless you, my boy ! ’ 

11 What do you think was the first thing my uncle did to 
relieve himself of the awful accession of power which had just 
befallen him ? The following morning he gathered together 
every sixpence he had in the house, and went out of one grocer’s 
shop into another, and out of one baker’s shop into another, until 
he had changed the whole into three-penny pieces. Then he 
walked to town, as usual, to business. But one or two of his 
friends who were walking the same way, and followed behind 
him. could not think what Mr. Belper was about. Every crossing 
that he came to he made use of to cross to the other side. He 
crossed and rccrossed the same street twenty times, they said. 
But at length they observed, that, with a legerdemain worthy of 


ADELA CA THCART. 


261 


n professor, he slipped something into every sweeper’s hand as 
he passed him. It was one of the threepenny pieces. When he 
walked home in the evening, he had nothing to give, and besides 
went through one of the wet experiences to which I have already 
alluded. To add to his discomfort, he found, when he got home, 
that his tobacco-jar was quite empty, so that he was forced to put 
on his wet shoes again, — for he never, to the end of his days, 
had more than one pair at a time, — in order to come across to 
my mother to borrow sixpence. Before the legacy was paid to 
him, he went through a good many of the tortures which result 
from being ‘ a king and no king.’ The inward consciousness 
and the outward possibility did not in the least correspond. At 
length, after much much manoeuvring with the lawyers, who 
seemed to sympathize with the departed cousin in this, that 
they, too, would prefer keeping the money till death parted them 
and it, he succeeded in getting a thousand pounds of it on 
Christmas eve. 

“ 1 NOW ! ’ said Uncle Peter, in enormous capitals. That 
night a thundering knock came to our door. We w T ere all 
sitting in our little dining-room, — father, mother, and seven 
children of us, — talking about what we should do next day. 
The door opened, and in came the most grotesque figure you 
could imagine. It was seven feet high at least, without any 
head, a mere walking tree-stump, as far as shape went, only 
it looked soft. The little ones were terrified, but not the big- 
ger ones of us ; for from top to toe (if it had a toe) it was 
covered with toys of every conceivable description, fastened on 
to it somehow or other. It was a perfect treasure-cave of Ali 
Baba turned inside out. We shrieked with delight. The 
figure stood perfectly still, and we gathered round it in a group 
to have a nearer view of the wonder. We then discovered that 
there were tickets on all the articles, which we supposed at first 
to record the price of each. But, upon still closer examina- 
tion, we discovered that every one of the tickets had one or other 
of our names upon it. This caused a fresh explosion of joy. 
Nor was it the children only that were thus remembered. A 
little box bore my mother’s name. When she opened it, we 
saw a real gold watch and chain, and seals and dangles of 
every sort, of useful and useless kind ; and my mother s initials 
were on the watch. My father had a silver flute, and to the 


262 


ADELA CATIICART. 


music of it we had such a dance ! the strange figure, now con- 
siderably lighter, joining in it without uttering a word. Dur- 
ing the dance one of my sisters, a very sharp-eyed little puss, 
espied about half way up the monster two bright eyes looking 
out of a shadowy depth of something like the skirts of a great- 
coat. She peeped and peeped; and at length, with a perfect 
scream of exultation, cried out, ‘ It's Uncle Peter ! It’s Uncle 
Peter ! ’ The music ceased ; the dance was forgotten ; we flew 
upon him like a pack of hungry wolves ; we tore him to the 
ground ; despoiled him of coats, and plaids, and elevating 
sticks ; and discovered the kernel of the beneficent monster in 
the person of real Uncle Peter ; which, after all, was the best 
present he could have brought us on Christmas eve, for we had 
been very dull for want of him, and had been wondering why 
he did not come. 

11 But Uncle Peter had laid great plans for his birthday, and 
for the carrying out of them he took me into his confidence, — 
I being now a lad of fifteen, and partaking sufficiently of my 
uncle’s nature to enjoy at least the fun of his benevolence. 
He had been for some time perfecting his information about a 
few of the families in the neighborhood ; for he was a bit of a 
gossip, and did not turn his landlady out of the room when she 
came in with a whisper of news, in the manner in which he 
had turned her out when she came to expostulate about the 
table. But she knew her lodger well enough never to dare to 
bring him any scandal. From her he had learned that a cer- 
tain artist in the neighborhood was very poor. He made in- 
quiry about him where he thought he could hear more, and 
finding that he was steady and hard-working (Uncle Peter 
never cared to inquire whether he had genius or not ; it was 
enough to him that the poor fellow's pictures did not sell), 
resolved that he should have a more pleasant Christmas than 
he expected. One other chief outlet for his brotherly love, in 
the present instance, was a dissenting minister and his wife, 
who had a large family of little children. They lived in the 
same street witn himself. Uncle Peter was an unwavering 
adherent to the Church of England, but he would have felt 
himself a dissenter at once if he had excommunicated any onb 
by withdrawing his sympathies from him. He knew that this 
minister was a thoroughly good man, and he had even gone to 


ADELA CATHCART. 


263 


hear him preach once or twice. He knew, too, that his congre- 
gation was not the more liberal to him that he was liberal to all 
men. So he resolved that he would act the part of one of the 
black angels that brought bread and meat to Elijah in the wil- 
derness. Uncle Peter would never have pretended to rank 
higher than one of the foresaid ravens. 

u A great part of the forenoon of Christmas day was spent 
by my uncle and me in preparations. The presents he had 
planned were many, but I will only mention two or three of 
them in particular. For the minister and his family he got a 
small bottle with a large mouth. This he filled as full of 
new sovereigns as it would hold ; labelled it outside, ‘ Pickled 
Mushrooms ; ’ 1 for doesn’t it grow in the earth without any 
seed ? ’ said he ; and then wrapped it up like a grocer's parcel. 
For the artist, he took a large shell from his chimney-piece ; 
folded a fifty-pound note in a bit of paper, which he tied up 
with a green ribbon ; inserted the paper in the jaws of the 
shell, so that the ends of the ribbon should hang out ; folded it 
up in paper and sealed it ; wrote outside, ‘ Inquire within ; 9 
enclosed the whole in a tin box and directed it, ‘ With Christ - 
mas-day's compliments ‘ for wasn’t I born on Christmas 
day? ’ concluded Uncle Peter for the twentieth time that fore- 
noon. Then there were a dozen or two of the best port he 
could get, for a lady who had just had a baby, and whose 
husband and his income he knew from business relations. 
Nor were the children forgotten. Every house in his street 
and ours, in which he knew there were little ones, had a parcel 
of toys and sweet things prepared for it. 

11 As soon as the afternoon grew dusky, we set out with as 
many as we could carry. A slight disguise secured me from 
discovery, my duty being to leave the parcels at the different 
houses. In the case of the more valuable of them, my duty 
was to ask for the master or mistress, and see the packet in 
safe hands. In this I was successful in every instance. It 
must have been a great relief to my uncle when the number 
of parcels were sufficiently diminished to restore to him the 
use of his hands, for to him they were as necessary for rubbing 
as a tail is to a dog for wagging, — in both cases for electrical 
reasons, no doubt. He dropped several parcels in the vain 
attempt to hold them and perform the usual frictional move- 


264 


ADELA CATHCAIiT. 


ment notwithstanding; so he was compelled instead to go 
through a kind of solemn pace, which got more and more rapid 
as the parcels decreased in number, till it became at last, in 
its wild movements, something like a Highlander’s sword- 
dance. We had to go home several times for more, keeping the 
best till the last. When Uncle Peter saw me give the ‘ pick- 
led mushrooms ’ into the hands of the lady of the house, he 
uttered a kind of laugh, strangled into a crow, which startled 
the good lady, who was evidently rather alarmed already at 
the weight of the small parcel, for she said, with a scared 
look : — 

“ ‘ It’s not gunpowder, is it ? ’ 

“ ‘ No,’ I said ; ‘ I think it’s shot.’ 

“ ‘ Shot ! ’ said she, looking even more alarmed. ‘Don’t 
you think you had better take it back again ? ’ 

“ She held out the parcel to me, and made as if she would 
shut the door. 

“ ‘ Why, ma’am,’ I answered, ‘you would not have me 
taken up for stealing it?’ 

“ It was a foolish reply ; but it answered the purpose if not 
the question. She kept the parcel and shut the door. When 
I looked round I saw my uncle going through a regular series 
of convolutions, corresponding exactly to the bodily contor- 
tions he must have executed at school every time he received 
a course of what they call palmies in Scotland ; if, indeed, 
Uncle Peter was ever even suspected of improper behavior at 
school. It consisted first of a dance, then a double-up ; then 
another dance, then another double-up, and so on. 

“ ‘ Some stupid hoax, I suppose! ’ said the artist, as I put 
the parcels into his hands. He looked gloomy enough, poor 
fellow ! 

“ ‘ Don’t be too sure of that, if you please,’ sir, said I, and 
vanished. 

“ Everything was a good joke to uncle all that evening. 

“ ‘ Charlie,’ said he, ‘ I never had such a birthday in my 
life before; but, please God, now I've begun, this will not 
be the last of the sort. But, you young rascal, if you split, 
why, 111 thrash the life out of you. No, I won’t,’ — here 
my uncle assumed a dignified attitude, and concluded with 


ADELA CATHCART. 


265 


mock ' solemnity, — c no, I won’t. I will cut you off with a 
shilling. 5 

“This was a crescendo passage, ending in a howl, upon 
which he commenced once more an edition of the Highland 
fling, with impromptu variations. 

“ When all the parcels were delivered, we walked home to- 
gether to my uncle's lodgings, where he gave me a glass of 
wine and a sovereign for my trouble. I believe I felt as rich 
as any of them. 

“But now I must tell you the romance of my uncle’s 
life. I do not mean the suspected hidden romance, for that no 
one knew, — except, indeed, a dead one knew all about it. It 
was a later romance, which, however, nearly cost him his life 
once. 

“ One Christmas eve we had been occupied, as usual, with 
the presents of the following Christmas day, and — will you 
believe it ? — in the same lodgings too, for my uncle was a 
thorough Tory in his hatred of change. Indeed, although two 
years had passed, and he had had the whole of his property at 
his disposal since the legal term of one year, he still continued 
to draw his salary of £100, of Messrs. Buff and Codgers. One 
Christmas eve, I say, I was helping him to make up parcels, 
when, from a sudden impulse, I said to him: — 

“ ‘ How good you are, uncle ! ’ 

“ 1 Ha ! ha ! ha ! 7 laughed he ; c that’s the best joke of all. 
Good, my boy! Ha! ha! ha! Why, Charlie, you don’t 
fancy I care one atom for all these people, do you ? 1 do 

it all to please myself. Ha ! ha ! ha ! It’s the cheapest 
pleasure at the money, considering the quality, that I know. 
That is a joke. Good, indeed ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! ’ 

“lam happy to say I was an old enough bird not to be 
caught with this metaphysical chaff. But my uncle’s face grew 
suddenly very grave, even sad in its expression ; and after 
a pause he resumed, but this time without any laughing : — 

“ ‘ Good, Charlie ! Why, I’m no use to anybody.’ 

“ 1 You do me good, anyhow, uncle,’ I answered. 1 If I’m 
not a better man for having you for an uncle, why, I shall be 
a great deal the worst, that’s all.’ 

“ ‘ Why, there it is ! ’ rejoined my uncle; ‘ I don’t know 
whether I do good or harm. But for you, Charlie, you're a 


2G6 


ADELA CATHCART. 


good boy, and don’t want any good done to you. It would 
break my heart, Charlie, if I thought you weren’t a good boy.’ 

44 He always called me a boy after I was a grown man. But 
then I believe he always felt like a boy himself, and quite for- 
got that we were uncle and nephew. 

“ I was silent, and he resumed : — 

44 ‘I wish I could be of real, unmistakable use to any one. 
But I fear I am not good enough to have that honor done me.’ 

44 Next morning, — that was Christmas day, — he went out 
for a walk alone, apparently oppressed with the thought with 
which the serious part of our conversation on the preceding 
evening had closed. Of course nothing less than a three- 
penny piece would do for a crossing-sweeper on Christmas day ; 
but one tiny little girl touched his heart so that the usual coin 
was doubled. Still this did not relieve the heart of the giver 
sufficiently; for the child looked up in his face in a way, what- 
ever the way was, that made his heart ache. So he gave her 
a shilling. But he felt no better after that. I am following 
his own account of feelings and circumstances . 

“ £ This won’t do,’ said Uncle Peter to himself. 4 What is 
your name ? ’ said Uncle Peter to the little girl. 

44 4 Little Christmas,’ she answered. 

44 4 Little Christmas ! ’ exclaimed Uncle Peter. 4 1 see why 
that wouldn’t do now. What do you mean ? ’ 

44 ‘Little Christmas, sir; please, sir.’ 

44 4 Who calls you that? ’ 

44 ‘ Everybody, sir.’ 

44 ‘ Why do they call you that ? ’ 

44 1 It’s my name, sir.’ 

44 4 What’s your father’s name ? ’ 

44 4 1 ain’t got none, sir.’ 

44 4 But you know what his name was? ’ 

44 4 No, sir.’ 

“ ‘ How did you get your name then ? It must be the same 
as your father’s, you know.’ 

“ 4 Then I suppose my father was Christmas day, sir, for I 
knows of none else. They always calls me Little Christmas.’ 

4 4 4 IPm ! A little sister of mine, I see,’ said Uncle Peter 
to himself. 

4 4 4 Well, who’s your mother ? ’ 


AD EL A CATHCART. 


267 


“ 1 My aunt, sir. She knows I ? m out, sir.’ 

“ There was not tie least impudence in the child’s tone of 
manner in saying this. She looked up at him witli her gypsy 
eyes in the most confident manner. She had not struck him 
in the least as beautiful ; but the longer he looked at her, the 
more he was pleased with her. 

“ 1 Is your aunt kind to you ? ’ 

“ 1 She gives me my wittles.’ 

11 1 Suppose you did not get any money all day, what would 
Bhe say to you ? ’ 

“ 1 Oh, she won’t give me a hidin’ to-day, sir, supposin’ I 
gets no more. You’ve giv’ me enough already, sir; thank 
you, sir. I'll change it into ha’pence.’ 

“ ‘ She does beat you sometimes, then? ’ 

“ 1 Oh, my ! ’ 

“ Here she rubbed her arms and elbows as if she ached all 
over at the thought, and these were the only part3 she could 
reach to rub for the whole. 

“ ‘ I will/ said Uncle Peter to himself. 

“‘Do you think you were born on Christmas day, little 
one ? ’ 

“ ‘ I think I was once, sir.’ 

“ ‘ I shall teach the child to tell lies if I go on asking her 
questions in this way,’ thought my uncle. ‘ Will you go 
home with me ? ’ he said, coaxingly. 

“ ‘ Yes, pir, if you will tell me where to put my broom, for 
I must not go home without it, else aunt would wallop me.’ 

“ ‘ I will buy you a new broom.’ 

“ ‘ But aunt would wallop me all the same if I did not bring 
home the old one for our Christmas fire.’ 

“ ‘ Never mind. I will take care of you. You may bring 
your broom if you like, though,’ he added, seeing a cloud 
come over the little face. 

“‘Thank you, sir,’ said the child; and, shouldering her 
broom, she trotted along behind him, as he led the way home. 

“ But this would not do, either. Before they had gone 
twelve paces, he had the child in one hand; and before they 
had gone a second twelve, he had the broom in the other. 
And so Uncle Peter walked home with his child and his 
broom. The latter he set down inside the door, and the for* 


2G8 


ADELA CATIICART. 


mer he led upstairs to his room. There he seated her on a 
chair by the fire, and, ringing the bell, ashed the landlady to ! 
bring a basin of bread and milk. The woman cast a look of 
mdignation and wrath at the poor little immortal. She might 
have been the impersonation of Christmas day in the cata- ; 
combs, as she sat with her feet wide apart, and reaching half t 
way down the legs of the chair, and her black eyes staring 
from the midst of knotted tangles of hair that never felt comb 1 
or brush, or were defended from the wind by bonnet or hood. 

I dare say uncle’s poor apartment, with its cases of stuffed 
birds and its square piano that was used for a cupboard, seemed 
to her the most sumptuous of conceivable abodes. But she 
said nothing — only stared. When her bread and milk came, j 
she ate it up without a word, and when she had finished it sat 
still for a moment, as if pondering what it became her to 
do next. Then she rose, dropped a courtesy, and said, , 
‘ Thank you, sir. Please, sir, where’s my broom ? ’ 

“ 1 Oh, but I want you to stop with me, and be my little 
giid.’ 

“ 1 . Please, sir, I would rather go to my crossing.’ 

“The face of Little Christmas lengthened visibly, and she 
was upon the point of crying. Uncle Peter saw that he had 
been too precipitate, and that he must woo the child before he 1 
could hope to win her ; so he asked her for her address. But 
though she knew the way to her home perfectly, she could j 
give only what seemed to him the most confused directions ! 
how to find it. No doubt to her they seemed as clear as day. [ 
Afraid of terrifying her by following her, the best way seemed j 
to him to promise her a new frock on the morrow, if she would ! 
come and fetch it. Her face brightened so at the sound of a 
new frock, that my uncle had very little fear of the fault being 
hers if she did not come. 

“ ‘Will you know the way back, my dear? ’ 

“ 4 1 always know my way anywheres,’ answered she. So 
she was allowed to depart with her cherished broom. 

“ Uncle Peter took my mother into council upon the affair 
of the frock. She thought an old one of my sister’s would do 
best. But my uncle had said a new frock, and a new one it 
must be. So next day my mother went with him to buy one, 
and was excessively amused with his entire ignorance of what 


ADELA CATIICART. 


269 


was suitable for the child. However, the frock being purchased, 
he saw how absurd it would be to put a new frock over such 
garments as she must have below, and accordingly made my 
mother buy everything to clothe her completely. With these 
treasures he hastened home, and found poor Little Christmas 
and her broom waiting for him outside the door, for the land- 
lady would not let her in. This roused the wrath of my 
uncle to such a degree, that, although he had borne wrongs 
innumerable and aggravated for a long period of years without 
complaint, he walked in and gave her notice that he would 
leave in a week. I think she expected he would forget all 
about it before the day arrived ; but, with his further designs 
for Little Christmas, he was not likely to forget it ; and I fear 
I have seldom enjoyed anything so much as the consternation 
of the woman (whom I heartily hated) when she saw a truck 
arrive to remove my uncle’s few personal possessions from her 
inhospitable roof. I believe she took her revenge by giving 
her cronies to understand that she had turned my uncle away 
at a week’s warning for bringing home improper companions 
to her respectable house. But to return to Little Christmas. 
She fared all the better for the landlady’s unkindness ; for my 
mother took her home and washed her with her own soft hands 
from head to foot ; and then put all the new clothes on her, 
and she looked charming. How my uncle would have man- 
aged I can’t think. He was delighted at the improvement in 
her appearance. I saw him turn round and wipe his eyes 
with his lidndkerchief. 

“‘Now, Little Christmas, will you come and live with 
me ? ’ said he. 

“ She pulled the same face, though not quite so long as 
before, and said, ‘ I would rather go to my crossing, please, sir.’ 

“ My uncle heaved a sigh and let her go. 

“ She shouldered her broom, as if it had been the rifle of a 
giant, and trotted away to her work. 

“ But next day, and the next, and the next, she was not to 
be seen at her wonted corner. When a whole week had passed 
and she did not make her appearance, my uncle was in de- 
spair. 

“ ‘ You seo, Charlie,’ said he, ‘ I am fated to be of no use 
to anybody, though I was born on Christmas day.’ 


270 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“ The very next day, however, being Sunday, my uncle found 
her as he went to church. She was sweeping a new crossing. 
She seemed to have found a lower deep still, for, alas ! all her 
new clothes were gone, and she was more tattered and wretched- 
looking than before. As soon as she saw my uncle she burst 
into tears. 

“ ‘ Look,’ she said, pulling up her little frock, and showing 
her thigh with a terrible bruise upon it; * she did it.’ 

“ A fresh burst of tears followed. 

11 ‘Where are your new clothes, Little Christmas?’ asked 
my uncle. 

u 1 She sold them for gin, and then beat me awful. Please, 
sir, I couldn’t help it.’ 

“The child’s tears were so bitter, that my uncle, without 
thinking, said : — 

“ 1 Never mind, dear; you shall have another frock.’ 

“ Her tears ceased, and her face brightened for a moment; 
but the weeping returned almost instantaneously with increased 
violence, and she sobbed out : — 

<c 4 It‘s no use, sir; she’d only serve me the same, sir.’ 

11 1 Will you come home and live with me, then? ’ 

“ 1 Yes, please.’ 

“ She flung her broom from her into the middle of the street, 
nearly throwing down a cab-horse, betwixt whose fore-legs it 
tried to pass ; then, heedless of the oaths of the man, whom my 
uncle, had pacified with a shilling, put her hand in that of hei 
friend and trotted home with him. From that day till the da} 
of his death she never left him, — of her own accord, at least. 

“ My uncle had by this time, got into lodgings with a woman 
of the right sort, who received the little stray lamb with open arm3 
and open heart. Once more she was washed and clothed from 
head to foot, and from skin to frock. My uncle never allowed 
her to go out without him, or some one who was capable of 
protecting her. He did not think it at all necessary to supply 
the woman, who might not be her aunt after all, with gin un- 
limited, for the privilege of rescuing Little Christmas from 
her cruelty. So he felt that she was in great danger of being 
carried off, for the sake either of her earnings or her ransom ; 
und, in fact, some very suspicious-looking characters were sev- 
eral times observed prowling about in the neighborhood. Uncle 


ADELA CATHCART. 


271 


Peter, however, took what care he could to prevent any report 
of this reaching the ears of Little Christmas, lest she should live 
in terror ; and contented himself with watching her carefully. It 
was some time before my mother would consent to our playing 
with her freely and beyond her sight ; for it was strange to 
hear the ugly words which would now and then break from her 
dear little innocent lips. But she was very easily cured of 
this, although, of course, some time must pass before she could 
be quite depended upon. She was a sweet-tempered, loving 
child. But the love seemed for some time to have no way of 
showing itself, so little had she been used to ways of love and 
tenderness. When we kissed her she never returned the kiss, 
but only stared ; yet whatever we asked her to do she would 
do as if her whole heart was in it; and I did not doubt it was. 
Now I know it was. 

“ After a few years, when Christmas began to be considered 
tolerably capable of taking care of herself, the vigilance of 
my uncle gradually relaxed a little. A month before her thir- 
teenth birthday, as near as my uncle could guess, the girl dis- 
appeared. She had gone to the day-school as usual, and was 
expected home in the afternoon ; for my uncle would never 
part with her to go to a boarding-school, and yet wished her to 
have the benefit of mingling with her fellows, and not being 
always tied to the button-hole of an old bachelor. But she 
did not return at tho usual hour. My uncle went to inquire 
about her. She had left the school with the rest. Night drew 
on. My uncle was in despair. He roamed the streets all 
night ; spoke about his child to every policeman he met ; went 
to the station-house of the district, and described her ; had bills 
printed, and offered a hundred pounds’ reward for her restora- 
tion. All was unavailing. The miscreants must have seen 
the bills, but feared to repose confidence in the offer. Before 
the month was out, his clothes were hanging about him like a 
sack. He could hardly swallow a mouthful ; hardly even sit 
down to a meal. I believe he loved his Little Christmas every 
whL as much as if she had been his own daughter, — perhaps 
more, — for he could not help thinking of what she might have 
been if he had not rescued her ; and he felt that God had given 
her to him as certainly as if she had been his own child, only 
that she had come in another way. He would get out of bed 


272 


ADELA CATHCART. 


in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, and go wandering 
up and down the streets, and into dreadful places, sometimes, 
to try to find her. But fasting and watching could not go on 
lon^ without bringing friends with them. Uncle Peter was 
seized with a fever, which grew and grew till his life was de- 
spaired of. He was very delirious at time3, and then the strangest 
fancies had possession of his brain. Sometimes he seemed to 
see the horrid -woman she called her aunt, torturing the poor 
child ; sometimes it was old Pagan Father Christmas, clothed 
in snow and ice, come to fetch his daughter ; sometimes it was 
his old landlady shutting her out in the frost ; or himself find- 
ing her afterwards, but frozen so hard to the ground that he 
could not move her to get her in-doors. The doctors seemed 
doubtful, and gave as their opinion — a decided shake of the 
head. 

u Christmas day arrived. In the afternoon, to the wonder 
of all about him, although he had been wandering a moment 
before, he suddenly said : — 

“ 1 1 was born on Christmas day, you know. This is the first 
Christmas day that didn’t bring me good luck.’ 

u Turning to me, he added : — 

“ ‘ Charlie, my boy, it’s a good thing Another besides me 
was born on Christmas day, isn’t it? ’ 

“ 1 Yes, dear uncle,’ said I ; and it was all I could say. He 
lay quite quiet for a few minutes, when uiere came a gentle 1 
knock to the street door 

11 1 That's Chrissy ! ’ he cried, starting up in bed, and 
stretching out his arms with trembling eagerness. ‘ And me to 
say this Christmas day would bring me no good ! ’ 

“ He fell back on his pillow, and burst into a flood of tears. 

“ I rushed down to the door, and reached it before the ser- 
vant. I stared. There stood a girl about the size of Chrissy, 
with an old, battered bonnet on, and a ragged shawl. She was I 
standing on the door-step, trembling. I felt she was trembling | 
somehow, for I don’t think I saw it. She had Chrissy ’s eyes too, I 
thought ; but the light was dim now. for the evening was coming 
on. 

“ All this passed through my mind in a moment, during 
which she stood silent. 

“ ‘ What is it ? ’ I said, in a tremor of expectation. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


273 


“ 1 Charlie, don’t you know me? ’ she said, and burst into 
tears. 

“ We were in each other’s arms in a moment, — for the first 
time. But Chrissy is my wife now. I led her upstairs in 
triumph, and into my uncle’s room. 

“ ‘ 1 knew it was my lamb ! 5 he cried, stretching out his 
arms, and trying to lift himself up, only he was too weak. 

“ Chrissy flew to his arms. She was very dirty, and her 
clothes had such a smell of poverty ! But there she lay in 
my uncle’s bosom both of them sobbing, for a long time ; and 
when at last she withdrew, she tumbled down on the floor, and 
there she lay motionless. I was in a dreadful fright, but my 
mother came in at the moment, while I was trying to put some 
brandy within her cold lips, and got her into a warm bath, and 
put her to bed. 

“ In the morning she was much better, though the doctor 
would not let her get up for a day or two. I think, however, 
that was partly for my uncle’s sake. 

<l When at length she entered the room one morning, dressed 
in her own nice clothes, for there were plenty in the wardrobe 
in her room, my uncle stretched out his arms to her once more 
and said : — 

“ ‘ Ah ! Chrissy, I thought I was going to have my own 
way, and die on Christmas day ; but it would have been one 
too soon, before I had found you, my darling.’ 


CHAPTER XV. 

MY UNCLE PETER. — CONTINUED. 

“ It was resolved that, on that same evening, Chrissy should 
tell my uncle her story. We went out to walk together ; and, 
though she was not afraid to go, the least thing startled hei. 
A voice behind her w r ould make her turn pale and look hur- 
riedly round. Then she would smile again, even before the 
color had had time to come back to her cheeks, and say, 
4 What a goose I am ! But it is no wonder.’ I could see, too, 


274 


ADELA CATHCART. 


that she looked down at her nice clothes now and then with 
satisfaction. She does not like me to say so, but she does 
not deny it either, for Chrissy can’t tell a story even about her 
own feelings. My uncle had given us five pounds each to 
spend, and that was jolly. We bought each other such a lot 
of things, besides some for other people. And then we came 
home and had dinner tcte-a-tete in my uncle’s dining-room ; after 
which we w T ent up to my uncle’s room, and sat over the fire in 
the twilight till his afternoon-nap was over, and he was ready 
for his tea. This was ready for him by the time he awoke. 
Chrissy got up on the bed beside him ; I got up at the foot of 
the bed, facing her, and we had the tea-tray and plenty of et 
ceteras between us. 

“ 1 Oh ! I am happy ! ’ said Chrissy, and began to cry. 

“ 1 So am I, my darling ! 5 rejoined Uncle Peter, and fol- 
lowed her example. 

“ 4 So am I,’ said I ; 1 but I don’t mean to cry about it/ 
And then I did. 

“We all had one cup of tea, and some bread and butter in 
silence after this. But wdien Chrissy had poured out the second 
cup for Uncle Peter, she began of her own accord to tell us 
her story. 

“ 1 It was very foggy when we came out of school that after- 
noon, as you may remember, dear uncle.’ 

“ ‘ Indeed I do,’ answered Uncle Peter, with a sigh. 

“ 1 1 was coming along the way home with Bessie, — you 
know Bessie, uncle, — and we stopped to look in at a book- 
seller’s window, where the gas wa3 lighted. It was full of 
Christmas things already. One of them I thought very pretty, 
and I was standing staring at it, when all at once I saw that a 
big drabby woman had poked herself in between Bessie and me. 
She was staring in at the window too. She was so nasty that 
I moved away a little from her, but I wanted to have one more 
look at the picture. The woman came close to me. I moved 
again. Again she pushed up to me. I looked in her face, for 
I was rather cross by this time. A horrid feeling, I cannot 
tell you what it was like, came over me as soon as I saw her. 
I know how it was now, but I did not know then why I was 
frightened. I think she saw I was frightened, for she instantly 
walked against me, and shoved and hustled me round the cor- 


ADELA CATIICART. 


275 


ner, — it was a corner-shop, — and before I knew, I was in 
another street. It was dark and narrow. J ust at the moment 
a man came from the opposite side and joined the woman. Then 
they caught hold of my hands, and before my fright would let 
me speak I was deep into the narrow lane, for they ran with me 
as fast as they could. Then I began to scream, but they said 
such horrid words that I was forced to hold my tongue ; and in 
a minute more they had me inside a dreadful house, where the 
plaster was dropping away from the walls, and the skeleton-ribs 
of the house were looking through. I was nearly dead with 
terror and disgust. I don’t think it was a bit less dreadful to 
me from having dim recollections of having known such places 
well enough at one time of my life. I think that only made me 
the more frightened, because so the place seemed to have a claim 
upon me. What if I ought to be there, after all, and these 
dreadful creatures were my father and mother ! 

u 1 1 thought they were going to beat me at once, when the 
woman, whom I suspected to be my aunt, began to take off my 
frock. I was dreadful frightened, but I could not cry. How- 
ever it was only my clothes that they wanted. But I cannot 
tell you how frightful it was. They took almost everything I 
h;id on, and it was only when I began to scream in despair — sit 
still, Charlie, it’s all over now — that they stopped, with a nod 
to each other, as much as to say, u We can get the rest after- 
wards.” Then they put a filthy frock on me; brought me 
some dry bread to eat ; locked the door, and left me. It was 
nearly dark now. There was no fire. And all my warm clothes 
were gone. — Do sit still, Charlie. — I was dreadfully cold. 
There was a wretched-looking bed in one corner ; but I think I 
would have died of cold rather than get into it. And the air 
in the place was frightful. How long I sat there in the dark, 
I don’t know.’ 

“ fi What did you do all the time? ’ said I. 
u 1 There was only one thing to be done, Charlie. I think 
that is a foolish question to ask.’ 

“ ‘ Well, what did you do, Chrissy ? ’ 

11 1 Said my prayers, Charlie.’ 

11 i And then ? ’ 

“ 1 Said them again.’ 

“ 1 And nothing else ? ’ 


276 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“ 1 Yes ; I tried to get out of the window, but that was of 
no use ; for I could not open it. And it was one story high at 
least.’ 

“ 1 And what did you do next ? ’ 

u 1 Said over all my hymns.’ 

“ 1 And then, — what did you do next ? ’ 

“ 1 Why do you ask me so many times ? ’ 

11 1 Because I want to know.’ 

“ 1 Well, I will tell you. — I left my prayers alone ; and I 
began at the beginning, and I told God the -whole story, as if 
he had known nothing about it, from the very beginning when 
Uncle Peter found me on the crossing down to the minute when 
I was talking there to him in the dark.’ 

u 1 Ah ! my dear,’ said my uncle, with faltering voice, c you 
felt better after that, I dare say. And here was I in despair 
about you, and thought he did not care for any of us. I was 
very naughty, indeed.’ 

“ 1 And what next ? ’ I said. 

“ 1 By and by I heard a noise of quarrelling in the street, 
which came nearer and nearer. The door was burst open by 
some one falling against it. Blundering steps came upstairs. The 
two who had robbed me, evidently tipsy, were trying to unlock 
the door. At length they succeeded, and tumbled into the 
room. 

u 1 Where is the unnatural wretch,’ said the woman, ‘ who 
ran away and left her own mother in poverty and sickness ? ’ — 

“ ‘ 0 uncle, can it be that she is my mother ? 5 said Chrissy, 
interrupting herself. 

“ ‘ 1 don’t think she is,’ answered Uncle Peter. 1 She only 
wanted to vex you, my lamb. But it doesn’t matter whether 
she is or not.’ 

“ ‘ Doesn’t it, uncle? — I am ashamed of her.’ 

“ 4 But you are God’s child. And he can't be ashamed of 
you. Por he gave you the mother you had, whoever she was, 
and never asked you which you would have. So you need not 
mind. We ought always to like best to be just what God has 
made us.’ 

“‘I am sure of that, uncle. — Well, she began groping 
about to find me, for it was very dark. I sat quite still, ex- 
cept for trembling all over, till I felt her hands on me, when I 


ADELA CATHCART. 


277 


jumped up, and she fell on the floor. She began swearing 
dreadfully, but did not try to get up. I crept away to another 
corner. I heard the man snoring, and the woman breathing 
loud. Then I felt my way to the door, but, to my horror, found 
the man lying across it on the floor, so that I could not open 
it. Then I believe I cried for the first time. I was nearly 
frozen to death, and there was all the long night to bear yet. 
IIow I got through it, I cannot tell. It did go away. Per- 
haps God destroyed some of it for me. But when the light 
began to come through the window, and show me all the filth 
of the place, the man and the woman lying on the floor, the 
woman with her head cut and covered with blood, I began to 
feel that the darkness had been my friend. I felt this yet 
more w'hen I saw the state of my own dress, which I had for- 
gotten in the dark. I felt as if I had done some shameful 
thing, and wanted to follow the darkness, and hide in the 
skirts of it. It was an old gown of some woollen stuff, but it 
was impossible to tell what, it was so dirty and worn. I was 
ashamed that even those drunken creatures should wake and 
see me in it. But the light would come, and it came and came, 
until at last it waked them up, and the first words were so 
dreadful ! They quarrelled and swore at each other and at 
me, until I almost thought there couldn’t be a God who would 
let that go on so, and never stop it. But I suppose he wants 
them to stop, and doesn’t care to stop it himself, for he could 
easily do that of course, if he liked.’ 

“ 4 Just right, my darling ! ’ said Uncle Peter, with emotion. 

Chrissy saw that my uncle was too much excited by her 
story, although he tried not to show it, and with a wisdom which 
I have since learned to appreciate, cut it short. 

“ ‘ They did not treat me cruelly, though, the worst was, that 
they gave me next to nothing to eat. Perhaps they wanted to 
make me thin and wretched-looking, and I believe they suc- 
ceeded. — Charlie, you’ll turn over the cream, if you don’t 
sit still. — Three day3 passed this way. I have thought all 
over it, and I think they were a little puzzled how to get rid 
of me. They had no doubt watched me for a long time, and 
now they had got my clothes they were afraid. At last one 
night they took me out. My aunt, if aunt she is, was re« 
spectably dressed, — that is, comparatively, — and the man had 


278 


ADELA CATIICART. 


a great-coat on. which covered his dirty clothes. They helped 
me into a cart which stood at the door, and drove off. I resolved 
to watch the way we went. But we took so many turnings 
through narrow streets before we came out in a main road, that ! 
I soon found it was all one mass of confusion in my head ; and 
it was too dark to read any of the name3 of the streets, for the 
man kept as much in the middle of the road as possible. We 
drove some miles, I should think, before we stopped at the gate 
of a small house with a big porch, which stood alone. My 
aunt got out and went up to the house, and was admitted. 
A.fter a few minutes she returned, and, making me get out, she 
led me up to the house, where an elderly lady stood, holding 
the door half open. When we reached it my aunt gave me a ; 
sort of shove in, saying to the lady, **' There she is.” Then she 
said to me, u Come now, be a good girl, and don't tell lies,” and, ; 
turning hastily, ran down the steps, and got into the cart at 
the gate, which drove off at once the way we had come. The 
lady looked at me from head to foot, sternly but kindly too, I . 
thought, and so glad was I to find myself clear of those dread- 
ful creatures, that I burst out crying. She instantly began 
to read me a lecture on the privilege of being placed with • 
Christian people, who would instruct me how my soul might 
be saved, and teach me to lead an honest and virtuous life. I 
tried to say that I had led an honest life. But as often as I 
opened my mouth to tell anything about myself or my uncle, 
or, indeed, to say anything at all, I was stopped by her say- 
ing, “ Now don’t tell lies. Whatever you do, don’t tell lies.” 
This shut me up quite. I could not speak when I knew she 
would not believe me. But I did not cry ; I only felt my face 
get very hot and somehow my backbone grew longer, though 
I felt my eyes fixed on the ground. 

“ ‘ But,’ she went on, 4 you must change your dress. I 
will show you the way to your room, and you will find a print 
gown there, which I hope you will keep clean. And above 
all things don’t tell lies.’ 

“ Here Chrissy burst out laughing, as if it was such fun to 
be accused of lying ; but presently her eyes filled, and she 
made haste to go on. 

“ ‘ You may be sure I made haste to put on the nice clean 
frock, and, to my del ght, found other clean things for me as 


ADELA CATHCART. 


279 


well. I declare I felt like a princess for a whole day after, 
notwithstanding the occupation. For I soon found that I had 
been made over to Mrs. Sprinx, as a servant of all work. I 
think she must have paid these people for the chance of re- 
claiming one whom they had represented as at least a great 
liar. Whether my wages were to be paid to them, or even 
what they were to be, I never heard. I made up my mind at 
once that the best thing would be to do the work without 
grumbling, and do it as well as I could, for that would be 
doing no harm to any one, but the contrary, while it would 
give me the better chance of making my escape. But though 
I was determined to get away the first opportunity, and was 
miserable when I thought how anxious you would all be about 
me, yet I confess it was such a relief to be clean and in re- 
spectable company, that I caught myself singing once or twice 
the very first day. But the old lady soon stopped that. She 
was about in the kitchen the greater part of the day till din- 
ner-time, and taught me how to cook and save my soul both 
at once.’ 

“ 1 Indeed,’ interrupted Uncle Peter, 1 1 have read receipts 
for the salvation of the soul that sounded very much as if they 
came out of a cookery book.’ And the wrinkles of his laugh 
went up into his night-cap. Neither Chrissy nor I under- 
stood this at the time, but I have often thought of it since. 

“ Chrissy went on : — 

“ ‘I had finished washing up my dinner things, and sat 
down for a few minutes, for I was tired. I was staring into 
the fire, and thinking and thinking how I should get away, and 
what I should do when I got out of the house, and feeling as 
if the man and the woman were always prowling about it, and 
watching me through the wdndow, when suddenly I saw a 
little boy in a corner of the kitchen, staring at me with great 
brown eyes. He was a little boy, perhaps about six years old, 
with a pale face, and very earnest look. I did not speak to 
him, but waited to see what he would do. A few minutes 
passed, and I forgot him. But as I was wiping my eyes, 
which would get wet sometimes, notwithstanding my good for- 
tune, lie came up to me, and said in a timid whisper : — 

“ ‘ Are you a princess ? ’ 

11 i What makes you think that ? ; I said. 


280 


ADELA CATIICART. 




“ ‘ You have got such white hands,’ he answered. 

“‘No, I am not a princess,’ I said. 

“ ‘ Aren’t you Cinderella?’ 

‘“No, my darling,’ I replied; ‘but something like her; 
for they have stolen me away from home and brought me 
here. I wish I could get away.’ 

“ ‘ And here I confess I burst into a downright fit of crying 

“ ‘ Don’t cry,’ said the little fellow, stroking my cheek. 
‘ I will let you out some time. Shall you be able to find your 
way home all by yourself?’ 

“ ‘Yes, I think so,’ I answered; but at the same time I 
felt very doubtful about it, because I always fancied those 
people watching me. But before either of us spoke again, in 
came Mrs. Sprinx. 

“ ‘ You naughty boy ! What business have you to make 
the servant neglect her work ? ’ 




“ “For I was still sitting by the fire, and my arm was 
round the dear little fellow, and his head was leaning on my 
shoulder. 

“‘She’s not a servant, auntie!’ cried he, indignantly. 

‘ She's a real princess, though of course she won’t own to it.’ 

“ ‘ What lies you have been telling the boy ! You ought to 
be ashamed of yourself. Come along directly. Get the tea 
at once, Jane.’ 

“ ‘ My little friend went with his aunt, and I rose and got 
the tea. But I felt much lighter-hearted since I had the sym- 
pathy of the little boy to comfort me. Only I was afraid they 
would make him hate me. But, although I saw very little 
of him the rest of the time, I knew they had not succeeded in 
doing so ; for, as often as he could, he would come sliding up to 
me, saying, “How do you do, princess?” and then run away, 
afraid of being seen and scolded. 

“ { I was getting very desperate about making my escape, 
for there was a high wall about the place, and the gate wa3 
always locked at night. When Christmas eve came, I was 
nearly crazy with thinking that to-morrow was uncle’s 
birthday ; and that I should not be with him. But that very 
night, after I had gqne to njy room, the door opened, and in 
came little Eddie in his night-gown, his eyes looking very 
bright and black over it. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


285 


“ 1 There, princess ! ’ said he, ‘ there is the key of the gate 
Run.’ 

11 ‘ I took him in my arms and kissed him, unable to speak. 
He struggled to get free, and ran to the door. There he 
turned and said : — 

u 1 You will come back and see me some day, — will you 
not? ’ 

“ 1 That I will,’ I answered. 

“ ‘ That you shall,’ said Uncle Peter. 

“ 1 1 hid the key, and went to bed, where I lay trembling. 
As soon as I was sure they must be asleep, I rose and dressed. 
I had no bonnet or shawl but those I had come in ; and, though 
they disgusted me, I thought it better to put them on. But I 
dared not unlock the street door, for fear of making a noise. 
So I crept out of the kitchen window, and then I got out at 
the gate all safe. No one was in sight. So I locked it again, 
and threw the key over. But what a time of fear and wander- 
ing about I had in the darkness, before I dared to ask any one 
the way ! It was a bright, clear night ; and I walked very 
quietly till I came upon a great wide common. The sky, and 
the stars, and the wideness frightened me, and made me gasp 
at first. I felt as if I should fall away from everything into 
nothing. And it was so lonely ! But then I thought of God, 
and in a moment I knew that what I had thought loneliness was 
really the presence of God. And then I grew brave again, 
and walked on. When the morning dawned, I met a brick- 
layer going to his work, and found that I had been wandering 
away from London all the time ; but I did not mind that. 
Now I turned my face towards it, though not the way I had 
come. But I soon got dreadfully tired and faint, and once I 
think I fainted quite. I went up to a house, and a^ked for 
a piece of bread, and they gave it to me, and I felt much 
better after eating it But I had to rest so often, and got so 
tired, and my feet got so sore, that — you know how late it 
was before I got home to my darling uncle.’ 

“ 1 And me too ! ’ I expostulated. 

“ ‘And you, too, Charlie,’ she answered; and we all cried 
over again. 

“ ‘ This shan’t happen any more ! ’ said my uncle. 


282 


ADELA OATHCART. 


4 ‘ After tea was over, he asked for writing-things, and wrote 
a note, which he sent off. 

44 The next morning, about eleven, as I was looking out of 
the window, I saw a carriage drive up and stop at our door. 

44 £ What a pretty little brougham ! ’ I cried. £ And such 
a jolly horse ! Look here, Chrissy ! ’ 

44 Presently Uncle Peter's bell rang, and Miss Chrissy was 
sent for. She came down again, radiant with pleasure. 

44 4 What do you think, Charlie ! That carriage is mine, — 
all my own. And I am to go to school in it always. Do come 
and have a ride in it.’ 

44 You may be sure I was delighted to do so. 

44 4 Where shall we go ? ’ I said. 

4 4 4 Let us ask uncle if we may go and see the little darling 
who set me free.’ 

44 His consent was soon obtained, and away we went. It 
was a long drive, but we enjoyed it beyond everything. When 
we reached the house, we were shown into the drawing-room. 
There was Mrs. Sprinx and little Eddie. The lady stared ; 
but the child knew Cinderella at once, and flew into her arms. 

44 4 I knew you were a princess ! ’ he cried. 4 There, auntie ! ’ 

44 But Mrs. Sprinx had put on an injured look, and her 
hands shook very much. 

44 4 Really, Miss Bel per, if that is your name, you have 
behaved in a most unaccountable way. Why did you not tell 
me, instead of stealing the key of the gate, and breaking the 
kitchen window ? A most improper way for a young lady to 
behave, — to run out of the house at midnight ! ’ 

44 4 You forget, madam,’ replied Chrissy, with more dignity 
than I had ever seen her assume, 4 that as soon as ever I at- 
tempted to open my mouth, you told me not to tell lies. You 
believed the wicked people who brought me here rather than 
myself. However, as you will not be friendly, I think we had 
better go. Come, Charlie ! ’ 

4 4 4 Don't go, princess,’ pleaded little Eddie. 

4 4 4 But I must, for your auntie does not like me,’ said 
Chrissy. 

4 4 4 1 am sure I always meant to do my duty by you. And 
I will do so still. Beware, my dear young woman, of the 
deceitfulncss of riches. Your carriage won’t save your soul ! ’ 


ADELA CATIICART. 


283 


11 Chrissy was on the point of saying something rude, as she 
confessed when we got out ; but she did not. She made her 
bow, turned and walked away. I followed, and poor Eddie 
would have done so too, but was laid hold of by his aunt. I 
confess this was not quite proper behavior on Chrissy’s part; 
but I never discovered that till she made me see it. She was 
very sorry afterwards, and my uncle feared the brougham had 
begun to hurt her already, as she told me. For she had nar- 
rated the whole story to him, and his look first let her see that 
she had been wrong. My uncle went with her afterwards 
to see Mrs. Sprinx, and thank her for having done her best ; 
and to take Eddie such presents as my uncle only knew how 
to buy for children. When he went to school. I know he sent 
him a gold watch. From that time till now that she is my 
wife, Chrissy has had no more such adventures ; and if Uncle 
Peter did not die on Christmas day, it did not matter much, 
for Christmas day makes all the days of the year as sacred as 
itself.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE GIANT’S HEART. 

When Harry had finished reading, the colonel gallantly 
declared that the story was the best they had had. Mrs. Arm- 
strong received this as a joke, and begged him not to be so 
unsparing. 

“ Ah ! Mrs. Armstrong,” returned he, laughing, “you are 
not old enough yet to know the truth from a joke. Don’t 
you agree with me about the story, Mrs. Catheart ? ” 

“ I think it is very pretty and romantic. Such men as 
Uncle Peter are not very common in the world. The story is 
not too true to Nature.” 

This she said in a tone intended to indicate superior ac- 
quaintance with the world and its nature. I fear Mrs. Cath- 
eart, and some others whom I could name, mean by Nature 
something very bad indeed, which yet an artist is bound to be 


2S4 


ADELA CATnCART. 


loyal to. The colonel, however, seemed to be of a different 
opinion. 

“ If there never was such a man as Uncle Peter,” said he, 

“ there ought to have been ; and it is all the more reason for 
putting him into a story that he is not to be found in the 
world.” 

“Bravo!”’ cried I. “You have answered a great ques- 
tion in a few words.” 

“ I don’t know,” rejoined our host. “ Have I ? It seems to 
me as plain as the catechism.” 

I thought he might have found a more apt simile, but I held 
my peace. 

Next morning, I w r alked out in the snow. Since the storm 
of that terrible night, it had fallen again quietly and plentifully ; 
and now in the sunlight, the world — houses and trees, ponds 
and rivers — was like a creation, more than blocked out, but far 
from finished — in marble. 

“ And this,” I said to myself, as I regarded the wondrous 
loveliness with which the snow had at once clothed and dis- 
figured the bare branches of the trees, “ this is what has come 
of the chaos of falling flakes ! To this repose of beauty has 
that storm settled and sunk ! Will it not be so with our men- 
tal storms as well ? ” 

But here the figure displeased me ; for those w^ere not the 
true right shapes of the things ; and the truth does not stick i 
to things, but shows itself out of them. 

“ This lovely show,” I said, “ is the result of a busy fancy. 
This white world is the creation of a poet such as Shelley, in 
whom the fancy was too much for the intellect. Fancy settles 
upon anything ; half destroys its form, half beautifies it with 
something that is not its own. But the true creative imagina- 
tion, the form-seer, and the form-bestower, falls like the rain 1 
in the spring night, vanishing amid the roots of the trees ; not 
settling upon them in clouds of wintry white, but breaking 1 
forth from them in clouds of summer green.” 

And then my thoughts very naturally went from Nature to ! 
my niece; and I asked myself whether within the last few 
days I had not seen upon her countenance the expression of a 
mental spring-time. For the mind has its seasons four, with 
many changes, as well as the world, only that the cycles are 


ADELA CATHCART. 


285 


generally longer ; they can hardly be more mingled than a3 
here in our climate. 

Let me confess, now that the subject of the confession no 
longer exists, that there had been something about Adela that, 
pet-child of mine as she was, had troubled me. In all her be- 
havior, so far as I had had any opportunity of judging, she had 
been as good as my desires at least. But there was a want in 
her face, a certain flatness of expression, which I did not like. 
I love the common with all my heart, but I hate the common- 
place ; and, foolish old bachelor that I am, the commonplace 
in a woman troubles me, annoys me, makes me miserable. 
Well, it was something of the commonplace in Adela’ s expres- 
sion that had troubled me. Her eyes were clear, with lovely 
long dark lashes, but somehow the light in them had been al- 
ways the same ; and occasionally when I talked to her of the 
things I most wished to care about, there was such an immobile 
condition of the features, associated with such a ready assent 
in words, that I felt her notion of what I meant must be some- 
thing very different indeed from what I did mean. Her face 
looked as if it were made of something too thick for the in- 
ward light to shine through, — wax, and not living muscle and 
skin. The fact was, the light within had not been kindled, 
else that face of hers would have been ready enough to let it 
shine out. Hitherto she had not seemed to me to belong at all 
to that company that praises God with sweet looks, as Thomas 
Hood describes Buth as doing. What was wanting I had found 
it difficult to define. Her soul was asleep. She was dreaming 
a child’s dreams, instead of seeing a woman’s realities, — real- 
ities that awake the swift play of feature, as the wind of God 
arouses the expression of a still landscape. So there seemed 
after all a gulf between her and me. She did not see what I 
saw, feel what I felt, seek what I sought. Occasionally even, 
the delicate young girl, pure and bright as the snow that hung 
on the boughs around me, would shock the wizened old bache- 
lor with her worldliness, — a worldliness that lay only in the 
use of current worldly phrases of selfish contentment, or self- 
ish care. Ah ! how little do young beauties understand of 
the pitiful emotions which they sometimes rouse in the breasts 
of men whom they suppose to be absorbed in admiration of 
them ! But for faith that these girls are God’s work and only 


286 


ADEL A CATIICART. 


half made yet, one would turn from them with sadness, almost 
painful dislike, and take refuge with some noble-faced grand** 
mother, or withered old maid, whose features tell of sorrow 
and patience. And the beauty would think with herself that j 
such a middle-aged gentleman did not admire pretty girls, and 
was severe and unkind and puritanical ; whereas it was the 
lack of beauty that made him turn away ; the disappointment 
of a face, — dull, that ought to be radiant; or the presence j 
of only that sort of beauty, which in middle age, except 
the deeper nature should meantime come into play, wrnuld be 
worse than commonplace, — would be mingled with the trail 
of more or less guilty sensuality. Many a woman at forty is 
repulsive, whom common men found at twenty irresistibly at- i 
tractive ; and many a woman at seventy is lovely to the eyes i 
of the man who would have been compelled to allow that she i 
was decidedly plain at seventeen. 

“ Maidens’ bairns are aye weel guided,” says the Scotch 
proverb ; and the same may be said of bachelors’ wives. So 
I will cease the strain, and return to Adela, the change in whom 
first roused it. 

Of late, I had seen a glimmer of something in her counte- 
nance w r hich I had never seen before, — a something which, 
the first time I perceived it, made me say to her, in my own 
hearing only, “ Ah, my dear, we shall understand each other 
by and by ! ” And now and then the light in her eye would 
be dimmed as by the foreshadowing of a tear, when there was j 
no immediate and visible cause to account for it ; and — which 
was very strange — I could not help fancying she began to be 
a little shy of her old uncle. Could it be that she was afraid 
of his insight reaching to her heart, and reading there more 
than she was yet willing to confess to herself? But what- 
ever the cause of the change might be, there was certainly a 
responsiveness in her, a readiness to meet every utterance, and 
take it home, by which the vanity of the old bachelor would 
have been flattered to the full, had not his heart come first, 
and forestalled the delight. 

So absorbed was I in considering these things, that the time 
passed like one of my thoughts ; and before I knew I found 
myself on the verge of the perilous moor over which Harry 
had ridden in the teeth and heart of the storm. How smooth, 


ADELA CATHCART. 


287 


yet cruel, it looked in its thick covering of snow ! There wag 
heather beneath, within which lay millions of purple bells, 
ready to rush out at the call of summer, and ring peals of 
merry gladness, making the desolate place not only blossom, 
but rejoice, as the rose. And there were cold wells of brown 
water beneath that snow, of depth unknown, which nourished 
nothing but the green grass that hid the cold glare of their 
presence from the eyes of the else warefully affrighted traveller. 
And I thought of Adela when I thought of heather ; and of 
some other women whom I had known, when I thought of the 
wells. 

When I came home, I told Adela -where I had been, and 
what a desolate place it was. And the flush that rose on her 
pale cheek was just like the light of the sunset which I had 
left shining over the whiteness of that snowy region. And I 
said to myself, “ It is so. And I trust it may be well.” 

As I walked home, I had bethought myself of a story which 
I had brought down with me in the hope of a chance of read- 
ing it, but which Adela’s illness had put out my mind ; for it 
was only a child’s story ; and although I hoped older people 
might find something in it, it would have been absurd to read 
it without the presence of little children. So I said to Adela : — 

“ Don’t you know any little children in Purleybridge, Ade- 
la?” 

“Oh, yes; plenty.” 

“ Couldn’t you ask some of them one night, and I would 
tell them a story. I think at this season they should have a 
share in what is going, and I have got one I think they would 
like.” 

“I shall be delighted. I will speak to papa about it at 
once. But next time — ” 

“ Yes, I know. Next time Harry Armstrong was going to 
read; but to tell you the truth, Adela, I doubt if he will be 
ready. I know he is dreadfully busy just now, and I believe 
he will be thankful to have a reprieve for a day or two, and 
his story, which I expect will be a good one, will be all the 
better for it.” 

“ Then I will speak to papa about it the moment he comes 
in ; and you will tell Mr. Henry. And mind, uncle, you take 
the change upon your own shoulders.” 


288 


ADELA CAT11CART. 


“ Trust me, my dear,” I said, as I left the room. 

As I had anticipated, Harry was grateful. Everything wag 
arranged. 

So, the next evening but one, we had a merry, pretty com- 
pany of boys and girls, none older, or at least looking older, 
than twelve. It did my heart good to see how Adela made 
herself at home with them, and talked to them as if she were 
one of themselves. By the time tea was over, I had made 
friends with them all, which was a stroke in its way nearly 
equal to Chaucer's, who made friends with all the nine and 
twenty Canterbury pilgrims before the sun was down. And 
the way I did was this. I began with the one next me, asking 
her the question : — 

“ Do you like fairy stories ? ” 

“Yes, I do,” answered she, heartily. 

“ Did you ever hear of the princess with the blue foot? ” 

“ No. Will you tell me, please? ” 

Then I turned to the one on my other side, and asked her : — - 
“ Did you ever hear of a giant that was all skin, — not skin 
and bone, you know, but all skin ? ” 

“No-o,” she answered, and her round blue eyes got rounder 
and bluer. 

The next was a boy. I asked him : — 

“ Did you ever hear of Don Worm, of Wakemup? ” 

“ No. Do please tell us about it.” 

And so I asked them, round the room. And by that time 
all eyes were fixed upon me. Then I said : — 

“ You see I cannot tell you all these stories to-night. But 
would you all like one of some sort ? ” 

A chorus of I should filled the room. 

“ What shall it be about, then ? ” 

“ A wicked fairy.” 

“ No ; that’s stupid. I’m tired of wicked fairies,” said a 
scornful little girl. 

“A good giant, then,” said a priggish imp, with a face as 
round as the late plum pudding. 

“I am afraid I could not tell you a story about a good 
giant ; for, unfortunately, all the good giants I ever heard of 
were very stupid; so stupid that a story would not make 
itself about them ; so stupid, indeed, that they were always 


ADELA CATIICART. 


289 


made game of by creatures not half so big or half so good 
and I don’t like such stories. Shall I tell you about the 
wicked giant that grew little children in his garden instead of 
radishes, and then carried them about in his waistcoat-pocket, 
and ate one as often as he remembered he had got some? ” 

;£ Yes, yes ; please do.” 

“ He used to catch little children and plant them in his 
garden, where you might see them in rows, with their heads 
only above ground, rolling their eyes about, and growing 
awfully fast. He liked greedy boys best, — boys that ate 
plum-pudding till they felt as if their belts were too tight.” 

Here the fat-faced boy stuck both his hands inside his belt. 

“ Because he was so fond of radishes,” I went on, u he 
lived just on the borders of Giantland, where it touched on the 
country of common people. Now, everything in Giantland 
was so big, that the common people saw only a mass of awful 
mountains and clouds ; and no living man had ever come from 
it, as far as anybody knew, to tell what he had seen in it. 

“ Somewhere near these borders, on the other side, by the 
edge of a great forest, lived a laborer, with his wife and a 
great many children. One day Tricksey-Wee, as they called 
her, teased her brother Buffy-Bob, till he could not bear it any 
longer, and gave her a box on the ear. Tricksey-Wee cried ; 
and Buffy-Bob was so sorry and ashamed of himself that he 
cried too, and ran off into the wood. He was so long gone, 
that Tricksey-Wee began to be frightened, for she was very 
fond of her brother ; and she was so sorry that she had first 
teased him, and then cried, that at last she ran into the wood 
to look for him, though there was more chance of losing 
herself than of finding him. And, indeed, so it seemed likely 
to turn out ; for, running on without looking, she at length 
found herself in a valley she knew nothing about. And no 
wonder ; for what she thought was a valley, with round, rocky 
sides, was no other than the space between two of the roots 
of a great tree that grew on the borders of Giantland. She 
climbed over the side of it, and right up to what she took 
for a black, round-topped mountain, far away; but she soon 
discovered that it was close to her, and was a hollow place 
so great that she could not tell what it was hollowed out cf. 
Staring at it, she found that it was a door-way ; and, going 


290 


ABELA CATHCART. 


nearer and staring harder, she saw the door, far in, with a 
knocker of iron upon it, a great many yards above her head, 
and as large as the anchor of a big ship. Now, nobody had 
ever been unkind to Tricksey-Wee, and therefore she was 
not afraid of anybody. For Buffy-Bob’s box on the ear she 
did not think worth considering. So, spying a little hole 
at the bottom of the door, which had been nibbled by some 
giant mouse, she crept through it, and found herself in an 
enormous hall, as big as if the late Mr. Martin, R.A., had 
been the architect. She could not have seen the other end 
of it at all, except for the great fire that was burning there, 
diminished to a spark in the distance. Towards this fire she 
ran as fast as she could, and was not far from it when some- 
thing fell before her with a great clatter, over which she 
tumbled, and went rolling on the floor. She was not much 
hurt, however, and got up in a moment. Then she saw that 
she had fallen over something not unlike a great iron bucket. 
When she examined it more closely, she discovered that it 
was a thimble ; and, looking up to see who had dropped it, 
beheld a huge face, with spectacles as big as the round win- 
dows in a church, bending over her, and looking everywhere 
for the thimble. Tricksey-Wee immediately laid hold of it in 
both her arms, and lifted it about an inch nearer to the nose 
of the peering giantess. This movement made the old lady 
see where it was, and, her finger popping into it, it vanished 
from the eyes of Tricksey-Wee, buried in the folds of a white 
stocking, like a cloud i;i the sky, which Mrs. Giant was busy 
darning. For it was Saturday night, and her husband would 
wear nothing but white stockings on Sunday.” 

“ But how could he be so particular about white stockings 
on Sunday, and eat little children? ” asked one of the group. 

Why, to be sure,” I answered, £: he did eat little children, 
but only very little one3 ; and if ever it crossed his mind that 
it was wrong to do so, he always said to himself that lie wore 
whiter stockings on Sunday than any other giant in all Giant- 
land. 

“ At that instant, Tricksey-Wee heard a sound like the 
wind in a tree full of leaves, and could not think what it could 
be ; till, looking up, she found that it was tho giantess whis- 


ADELA CATHCART. 


291 


pering tober; and when she tried very bard, she could hear 
what she said well enough. 

“ 4 -Run away, dear little girl/ she said, ‘ as fast as you can : 
for my husband will be home in a few minutes.’ 

“ ‘ But I’ve never been naughty to your husband,’ said 
Tricksey Wee, looking up in the giantess’ face. 

“ ‘ That doesn’t matter. You had better go. He is fond of 
little children, particularly little girls.’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! Then he won’t hurt me.’ 

‘“lam not sure of that. He is so fond of them that he 
eats them up ; and I am afraid he couldn't help hurting you a 
little. He’s a very good man though.’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! then — ’ began Tricksey Wee, feeling rather fright- 
ened ; but before she could finish her sentence, she heard the 
sound of footsteps very far apart and very heavy. The next 
moment who should come running towards her, full speed, and 
as pale as death, but Buffy-Bob ! She held out her arms, and 
he ran into them. But when she tried to kiss him, she only 
kissed the back of his head ; for his white face and round eyes 
were turned to the door. 

“ ‘ Run, children; run and hide,’ said the giantess. 

“‘Come, Buffy,’ said Tricksey ; ‘yonder’s a great brake; 
we'll hide in it.’ 

“ The brake was a big broom; and they had just got into 
the bristles of it, when they heard the door open with a sound 
of thunder ; and in stalked the giant. You would have thought 
you saw the whole earth through the door when he opened it, 
so wide was it ; and, when he closed it, it was like nightfall. 

“ ‘ Where is that little boy? ’ he cried, with a voice like the 
bellowing of cannon. ‘ He looked a very nice boy, indeed. I 
am almost sure he crept through the mouse-hole at the bottom 
of the door. Where is he, my dear? ’ 

“ ‘ I don’t know,’ answered the giantess. 

“ ‘ But you know it is wicked to tell lies ; don’t you, dear? ’ 
retorted the giant. 

“ ‘ Now, you ridiculous old Thunderthump ! ’ said his wife, 
with a smile as broad as the sea in the sun; ‘ how can I mend 
your white stockings, and look after little boys? You have 
got plenty to last you over Sunday, I am sure. J ust look 
what good little boys they are ! ’ 


292 


ADELA CATEJART. 


“ Tricksey-Wee and Buffy-Bob peered through the bristles, 
and discovered a row of little boys, about a dozen, with very 
fat faces, and goggle eyes, sitting before the fire, and looking 
stupidly into it. Thunderthump intended the most of these for 
seed, and was feeding them well before planting them. Now 
and then, however, he could not keep his teeth off them, and 
would eat one by-the-by, without salt.” 

“Now, you know that’s all nonsense; for little children 
don’t grow in gardens, I know. You may believe in the radish 
beds ; 1 don’t,” said one pert little puss. 

“ I never said I did,” replied I. “If the giant did, that’s 
enough for my story. I told you the good giants are very 
stupid; so you may think what the bad ones are. Indeed, 
the giant never really tried the plan. No doubt he did plant 
the children ; but he always pulled them up and ate them before 
they had a chance of increasing. 

“ He strode up to the wretched children. Now, what made 
them very wretched indeed was, that they knew if they could 
only keep from eating, and grow thin, the giant would dislike 
them, and turn them out to find their way home; but, not- ! 
withstanding this, so greedy were they, that they ate as much 
as ever they could hold. The giantess, who fed them, com- 
forted herself with thinking that they were not real boys and 
girls, but only little pigs, pretending to be boys and girls. 

“ ‘ Now tell me the truth,’ cried the giant, bending his face 
down over them. They shook with terror, and every one 
hoped it was somebody else the giant liked best. ‘ Where is 
the little boy that ran into the hall just now ? Whoever tells 
me a lie shall be instantly boiled.’ 

“ ‘ He’s in the broom,’ cried one dough-faced boy. ‘ He’s in 
there, and a little girl with him.’ 

“‘The naughty children,’ cried the giant, ‘to hide from 
me ! ’ And he made a stride towards the broom. 

“ ‘ Catch hold of the bristles, Bobby. Get right into a tuft, 
and hold on,’ cried Tricksey-Wee, just in time. 

“ The giant caught up the broom, and, seeing nothing under 
it, set it down again with a bang that threw them both on the 
floor. He then made two strides to the boys, caught the 


ADELA CATHCART. 


293 


dough-faced one by the neclc, took the lid off a great pot that 
was boiling on the fire, popped him in as if he had been a 
trussed chicken, put the lid on again, and saying, There, 
boys ! See what comes of lying ! ’ asked no more questions ; 
for, as he always kept his word, he was afraid he might have 
to do the same to them all ; and he did not like boiled boys. 
Ha liked to eat them crisp, as radishes, whether forked or not, 
ought to be eaten. He then sat down, and asked his wife if 
his supper was ready. She looked into the pot, and throwing 
the boy out with the ladle, as if he had been a black-beetle 
that had tumbled in and had had the worst of it, answered 
that she thought it was. Whereupon he rose to help her : and, 
taking the pot from the fire, poured the whole contents, bub- 
bling and splashing, into a dish like a vat. Then they sat 
down to supper. The children in the broom could not see 
what they had ; but it seemed to agree with them ; for the 
giant talked like thunder, and the giantess answered like the 
sea, and they grew chattier and chattier. At length the giant 
said : — 

“ 1 I don’t feel quite comfortable about that heart of mine. 7 
And as he spoke, instead of laying his hand on his bosom, he 
w T aved it away towards the corner where the children were 
peeping from the broom-bristles, like frightened little mice. 

il 1 Well, you know, my darling Thunderthump,’ answered 
his wife, ‘ I always thought it ought to be nearer home. But 
you know best of course.’ 

“ ‘ Ha ! ha ! You don’t know where it is, wife. I moved 
it a month ago.’ 

“ £ What a man you are, Thunderthump ! You trust any 
creature alive rather than your wife.’ 

“ Here the giantess gave a sob, which sounded exactly like 
a wave going flop into the mouth of a cave up to the roof. 

“ ‘ Where have you got it now?’ she resumed, checking 
her emotion. 

11 1 Well, Doodlem, I don’t mind telling you,’ said the 
giant, soothingly. £ The great she-eagle has got it for a nest- 
egg. She sits on it night and day, and thinks she will bring 
the greatest eagle out of it that ever sharpened his beak on the 
rocks of Mount Sky crack. I can warrant no one else will 
touch it while she has got it. But she is rather capricious. 


294 


ADELA CATBCART. 


and I confess I am not easy about it : for the least scratch 
of one of her claws would do for me at once. And she has 
claws.’ ” 

“ What funny things you do make up ! ” said a boy. “ How 
could the giant’s heart be in an eagle’s nest, and the giant him- 
self alive and well without it?” 

££ Whatever you may think of it, Master Fred, I assure you 
I did not make it up. If it ever was made up, no one can tell 
who did it ; for it was written in the chronicles of Giantland 
long before one of us was born. It was quite common,” said 
I, in an injured tone, ££ for a giant to put his heart out to 
nurse, because he did not like the trouble and responsibility 
of doing it himself. It was, I confess, a dangerous sort of 
thing to do. But do you want any more of my story or 
not ? ” 

“ Oh ! yes, please,” cried Frederick, very heartily. 

“ Then don’t you find any more fault with it, or I will 
stop.” 

Master Fred was straightway silent, and I went on. 

u All this time Buffy-Bob and Tricksey-Wee were listening 
with long ears. They did not dispute about the giant’s heart, 
and impossibility, and all that ; for they were better educated 
than Master Fred, and knew all about it. * Oh ! ’ thought 
Tricksey-Wee, 1 if I could but find the giant’s cruel heart, 
wouldn’t I give it a squeeze ! ’ 

“ The giant and giantess went on talking for a long time. 
The giantess kept advising the giant to hide his heart some- 
where in the house ; but he seemed afraid of the advantage it 
would give her over him. 

“ £ You could hide it at the bottom of the flour-barrel,’ said 
she. 

££ That would make me feel chokey,’ answered he. 

11 £ Well, in the coal-cellar, or in the dust-hole. That’s the 
place! No one would think of looking for your heart in the 
dust-hole.’ 

££ £ Worse and worse ! ’ cried the giant. 

££ £ Well, the water-butt,’ said she. 

“ £ No, no j it would grow spongy there,’ said be. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


295 


** * Well, what will you do with it? ’ 

“ 1 1 will leave it a month longer where it is, and then I 
will give it to the Queen of the Kangaroos, and she will carry 
it in her pouch for me. It is best to change, you know, and 
then my enemies can’t find it. But, dear Doodlem, it’s a 
fretting care to have a heart of one’s own to look after. The 
responsibility is too much for me. If it were not for a bite of 
a radish now and then, I never could bear it.’ 

“ Here the giant looked lovingly towards the row of little 
boys by the fire, all of whom were nodding, or asleep on the 
floor. 

“ ‘ Why don’t you trust it to me, dear Thunderthump ? ’ said 
his wife. ‘ 1 would take the best possible care of it.’ 

“ 1 1 don’t doubt it, my love. But the responsibility would 
be too much for you. You would no longer be my darling, 
light-hearted, airy, laughing Doodlem. It would transform 
you into a heavy, oppressed woman, weary of life, — as I am.’ 

“ The giant closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep. 
His wife got hiS stockings, and went on with her darning. 
Soon, the giant’s pretence became reality, and the giantess 
began to nod over her work. 

“ ‘ Now, BufFy,’ whispered Tricksey- Wee. ‘ now’s our time. 
I think it’s moonlight, and we had better be off. There’s a 
door with a hole for the cat just behind us.’ 

“ ‘ All right! ’ said Bob ; ‘I’m ready.’ 

“ So they got out of the broom-brake, and crept to the door. 
But, to their great disappointment, when they got through it, 
they found themselves in a sort of shed. It was full of tubs 
and things, and, though it was built of wood only, they could 
not find a crack. 

“ ‘Let us try this hole,’ said Tricksey; for the giant and 
giantess were sleeping behind them, and they dared not go back. 

“ ‘ All right,’ said Bob. He seldom said anything else than 
All right. 

“Now this hole was in a mound that came in through the 
wall of the shed and went along the floor for some distance. 
They crawled into it, and found it very dark. But groping 
their way along, they soon came to a small crack, through 
which they saw grass, pale in the moonshine. As they crept 
on, they found the hole began to get wider and lead upwards. 


296 


ADELA CATHCART. 


u 1 What is that noise of rushing? ’ said Buffy-Bob. 

“ 1 I can’t tell,’ replied Tricksey ; ‘for, you see, I don’t 
know what we are in.’ 

“ The fact was, they were creeping along a channel in the 
heart of a giant tree ; and the noise they heard was the noise 
of the sap rushing along in its wooden pipes. When they laid 
their ears to the wall, they heard it gurgling along with a 
pleasant noise. 

“ ‘ It sounds kind and good,’ said Tricksey. ‘ It is water 
running. Now it must be running from somewhere to some- 
where. I think we had better go on, and we shall come 
somewhere.’ 

“ It was now rather difficult to go on, for they had to climb 
as if they were climbing a hill ; and now the passage was wide. 
Nearly worn out, they saw light overhead at last, and, creeping 
through a crack into the open air, found themselves on the 
fork of a huge tree. A great, broad, uneven space lay around 

them, out of wdiich spread boughs in every direction, the 
smallest of them as big as the biggest tree in the country of 
common people. Overhead were leaves enough to supply all 
the trees they had ever seen. Not much moonlight could j 
come through, but the leaves would glimmer white in the wind 
at times. The tree was full of giant birds. Every now and j 

then, one would sweep through, with a great noise. But, except 
an occasional chirp, sounding like a shrill pipe in a great 
organ, they made no noise. All at once an owl began to hoot. 
He thought he was singing. As soon as he began, other birds 
replied, making rare game of him. To their astonishment, the 
children found they could understand every word they sang. 
And what they said was something like this : — 

“ ‘ I will sing a song. 

I am the owl.’ — 

‘ Sing a song, you sing-song, 

Ugly fowl ! 

What will you sing about. 

Now the light is out? * 

“ ‘ Sing about the night; 

I’m the owl/ — 

* You could not see for the light, 

Stupid fowl/ 


ADELA CATnCART. 


297 


1 Oh ! the moon ! and the dew 
And the shadows ! — tu-whoo ! * 

* c The owl spread out his silent, soft, sly wings, and, light- 
ing between Tricksey-Wee and Buffy-Bob, nearly smothered 
them, closing up one under each wing. It was like being 
buried in a down bed. But the owl did not like anything 
between his sides and his wings, so he opened his wings again, 
and the children made haste to get out. Tricksey-Wee im- 
mediately went in front of the bird, and looking up into his 
huge face, which w r as as round as the eyes of the giantess’ 
spectacles, and much bigger, dropped a pretty courtesy, and 
said : — 

11 4 Please, Mr. Owl, I want to whisper to you.’ 

“ 1 Very well, small child,’ answered the owl, looking im- 
portant, and stooping his ear towards her. 1 What is it ? ’ 

“ 4 Please tell me where the eagle lives that sits on the 
giant’s heart.’ 

, “ 4 0 you naughty child ! That’s a secret. For shame ! ’ 

“ And with a great hiss that terrified them, the owl flew 
into the tree. All birds are fond of secrets ; but not many of 
them can keep them so well as the owl. 

44 So the children went on, because they did not know what 
else to do. They found the w T ay very rough and difficult, the 
tree was so full of humps and hollows. Now and then they 
plashed into a pool of rain ; now and then they came upon 
twigs growing out of the trunk where they had no business, 
and they were as large as full-grow T n poplars. Sometimes 
they came upon great cushions of soft moss, and on one of them 
they lay down and rested. But they had not laid long before 
they spied a large nightingale sitting on a branch, with its 
bright eyes looking up at the moon. In a moment more he began 
to sing, and the birds about him began to reply, but in a very 
different tone from that in which they had replied to the owl. 
Oh, the birds did call the nightingale such pretty names ! 
The nightingale sang, and the birds replied like this : — 

“ 4 I will sing a song. 

I’m the nightingale.’ — 

4 Sing a song, long, long, 

Little Neverfail ! 

What will you sing about, 

Light in or light out ? * 


293 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ ‘ Sing about the light 
Gone away; 

Down, away, and out of sight — 

Poor lost day ! 

Mourning for the day dead, 

O’er his dim bed.’ 

u The nightingale sang so sweetly that the children would 
have fallen asleep but for fear of losing any of the song. 
When the nightingale stopped they got up and wandered on. : 
They did not know wLere they were going, but they thought it 
best to keep going on, because then they might come upon i 
something or other. They were very sorry they forgot to ask j 
the nightingale about the eagle’s nest ; but his music had put 
everything else out of their heads. They resolved, however, 
not to forget the next time they had a chance. They went on 
and on, till they were both tired, and Tricksey-Wee said at 
last, trying to laugh: — 

“ ‘ I declare my legs feel just like a Dutch doll’s.’ 

“ 1 Then here’s the place to go to bed in,’ said Buffy-Bob. 

“ They stood at the edge of a last year’s nest, and looked 
down with delight into the round, mossy cave. Then they 
crept gently in, and, lying down in each other's arms, found it 
so deep, and warm, and comfortable, and soft, that they were 
soon fast asleep. 

“Now close beside them, in a hollow, was another nest, in 
which lay a lark and his wife; and the children were awakened 
very early in the morning, by a dispute between Mr. and Mrs. 
Lark. 

“ 1 Let me up,’ said the lark. 

“ * It is not time, said the lark’s wife. 

u 1 It is,’ said the lark, rather rudely. 4 The darkness is quite 
thin. I can almost see my own beak.’ 

44 4 Nonsense ! ’ said the lark’s wife. 4 You know you came 
home yesterday morning quite worn out, — you had to fly so 
very high before you saw him. I am sure he would not mind 
if you took it a little easier. Do be quiet and go to sleep 
again.’ 

44 4 That's not it at all,’ said the lark. 4 He doesn’t want 
me. I want him. Let me up, I say.’ 

“ lie began to sing ; and Tricksey-Wee and Buffy-Bob, hav- 
ing now learned the way, answ3red him : — 


ADELA CATHCART. 


299 


u ‘I will sing a song, 

I’m the Lark.’ — 

* Sing, sing, Throat-strong, 

Little Kill-the-dark. 

What will you sing about, 

Now the night is out? 

“ ‘ I can only call ; 

1 can’t think. 

Let me up, that’s all. 

Let me drink ! 

Thirsting all the long night 
For a drink of light.’ 

“ By this time the lark was standing on the edge of his nest 
and looking at the children. 

“ 1 Poor little things ! You can’t fly,’ said the lark. 

‘“No; but we can look up,’ said Tricksey. 

“ ‘ Ah ! you don't know what it is to see the very first of 
the sun.’ 

“ 1 But we know what it is to wait till he comes. He’s no 
worse for your seeing him first, is he? ’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! no, certainly not,’ answered the lark, with conde- 
scension ; and then, bursting into his jubilate, he sprung aloft, 
clapping his wings like a clock running down, 
z “‘Tell us where — ’ began Bufiy-Boy. 

“ But the lark was out cf sight. His song was all that was 
left of him. That was everywhere, and he was nowhere. 

“* t Selfish bird ! ’ said Bufiy. £ It's all very well for larks 
to go hunting the sun, but they have no business to despise 
their neighbors, for all that.’ 

“ ‘ Can I be of any use to you ? ’ said a sweet bird- voice out 
of the nest. This was the lark’s wife, who stayed at home with 
the young larks while her husband went to church. 

“ ‘ Oh ! thank you. If you please,’ answered Tricksey- 
Wee. 

“ And up popped a pretty brown head ; and then up came 
a brown feathery body; and last of all came the slender legs 
on to the edge of the nest. There she turned, and, looking 
down into the nest, from which came a whole litany of chirp- 
ings for breakfast, said, 1 Lie still, little ones.’ Then she 
turned to the children. ‘ My husband is King of the Larks,’ 
she said. 


300 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ Buffy-Bob took off his cap, and Tricksey-Wee courtesied 
very low. 

“ ‘ Oh, it’s not me,’ said the bird, looking very shy. ‘ 1 am 
only his wife. It’s my husband.’ And she looked up after 
him into the sky, whence his song was still falling like a show- 
er of musical hailstones. Perhaps she could see him. 

“ ‘ He’s a splendid bird,’ said Buffy-Bob ; ‘only you know 
he will get up a little too early.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, no ! he doesn’t. It’s only his way, you know. But 
tell me what I can do for you.’ 

“ ‘ Tell us, please, Lady Lark, where the she-eagle lives that 
sits on Giant Thunderthump’s heart.’ 

“ £ Oh ! that is a secret.’ 

“ ‘ Did you promise not to tell ? ’ 

“‘No; but larks ought to be discreet. They see more 
than other birds.’ 

“ ‘ But you don’t fly up high like your husband, do you ? 9 

“ ‘ Not often. But it’s no matter. I come to know things 
for all that.’ 

“ ‘ Do tell me, and I will sing you a song,’ said Tricksey- 
Wee. 

“ ‘ Can you sing too? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes. And I will sing you a song I learned the other day 
about a lark and his wife.’ 

“‘Please do,’ said the lark’s wife. ‘Be quiet, children, \ 
and listen.’ 

“ Tricksey-Wee was very glad she happened to know a song 
which would please the lark’s wife, at least, whatever the lark 
himself might have thought of it, if he had heard it. So she 
Bang : — 

“ ‘ Good morrow, my lord! ’ in the sky alone. 

Sang the lark, as the sun ascended his throne. 

‘ Shine on me, my lord; I only am come, 

Of all your servants, to welcome you home. 

T have flown for an hour, right up, I swear, 

To catch the first shine of your golden hair! * 

“ ‘ Must I thank you, then,’ said the king, 4 Sir Lark, 

For flying so high, and hating the dark? 

You ask a full cup for half a thirst : 

Half is love of me, and half love to be first. 

There’s many a bird that makes no haste, 

But waits till I come. That’s as much to my taste/ 


ADELA CATHCART. 


301 


“ And the king hid his head in a turban of cloud ; 

And the lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed. 

But he flew up higher, and thought, ‘ Anon, 

The wrath of the king will be over and gone ; 

And his crown, shining out of the cloudy fold, 

Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold.' 

“ So he flew, with the strength of a lark he flew. 

But, as he rose, the cloud rose too ; 

And not a gleam of the golden hair 
Came through the depth of the misty air; 

Till, weary with flying with sighing sore, 

The strong sun-seeker could do no more. 

“ His wings had had no chrism of gold; 

And his feathers felt withered and worn and old ; 

And he sank, and quivered, and dropped like a stone. 

And there on his nest, where he left her, alone, 

Sat his little wife on her little eggs, 

Keeping them warm with wings Knd legs. 

“Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing! 

Full in her face was shining the king. 

‘Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired,’ said he. 

‘ Up is not always the best way to me. 

While you have been singing so high and away, 

I’ve been shining to your little wife all day.’ 

“ He had set his crown all about the nest, 

And out of the midst shone her little brown breast; 

And so glorious was she in russet gold, 

That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold. 

He popped his head under her wing, and lay 
As still as a stone, till the king was away. 

“ As soon as Tricksey-Wee had finished her song, the lark’s 
wife began a low, sweet, modest little song of her own ; and 
after she had piped away for two or three minutes, she 
said : — 

“ ‘ You dear children, what can I do for you ? ’ 

“ ‘Tell us where the she-eagle lives, please,’ said Tricksey- 
Wee. 

“ ‘ Well, I don’t think there can be much harm in telling 
such wise, good children,’ said Lady Lark ; ‘I am sure you 
don’t want to do any mischief.’ 

“ ‘Oh, no; quite the contrary,’ said BufFy-Bob. 

“ ‘ Then I'll tell you. She lives on the very topmost peak 
of Mount Skycrack ; and the only way to get up is, to climb 
on the spiders’ webs that cover it from top to bottom.’ 


302 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“ ‘ That’s rather serious,’ said Trieksey-Wee. 

“ ‘But you don’t want to go up, you foolish little thing! 
You can’t go. And what do you want to go up for? ’ 

“ ‘ That is a secret,’ said Tricksey-Wee. 

“ ‘Well, it's no business of mine,’ rejoined Lady Lark, a 
little offended, and quite vexed that she had told them. So 
she flew away to find some breakfast for her little ones, who 
by this time were chirping very impatiently. The children 
looked at each other, joined hands, and walked off. 

“In a minute more the sun was up, and they soon reached 
the outside of the tree. The bark was so knobby and rough, : 
and full of twigs, that they managed to get down, though not 
without great difficulty. Then, far away to the north, they 
saw a huge peak, like the spire of a church, going right up into 
the sky. They thought this must be Mount Skycrack, and 
turned their faces towards it. As they went on, they saw a 
giant or two, nowand then, striding about the fields or through 
the woods, but they kept out of their way. Nor were they in i 
much danger ; for it was only one or two of the border giants 
that were so very fond of children. At last they came to the 
foot of Mount Skycrack. It stood in a plain alone, and shot 
right up, I don’t know how many thousand feet, into the air, ; 
a long, narrow, spearlike mountain. The whole face of it, 
from top to bottom, was covered with a net-work of spiders’ 
webs, with threads of various sizes, from that of silk to that 
of whipcord. The webs shook, and quivered, and waved in 
the sun, glittering like silver. All about ran huge, greedy spi- i 
ders, catching huge, silly flies, and devouring them. 

‘‘ Here they sat down to consider what could be done. The 
spiders did not heed them, but ate away at the flies. At the 
foot of the mountain, and all round it, was a ring of water, 
not very broad, but very deep. Now, as they sat watching, 
one of the spiders, whose web was woven across this water, 
somehow or other lost his hold, and fell on his back. Trick- 
sey-Wee and Buffy-Bob ran to his assistance, and, laying hold 
each of one of his legs, succeeded, with the help of the other 
legs, which struggled spiderfully, in getting him out upon dry 
land. As soon as he had shaken himself, and dried himself a 
little, the spider turned to the children, saying : — 

“ 1 And now, what can I do for you ? ’ 


ADELA CATKCART. 


303 

*' ‘ Tell us, please/ said they, ‘ how we can get up the moun- 
tain to the she-eagle’s nest.’ 

“ 1 Nothing is easier,’ answered the spider. ‘Just run up 
there, and tell them all I sent you, and nobody will mind you. * 

“ 1 But we haven't got claws like you, Mr. Spider,’ said 
Buffy. 

“ ‘ Ah ! no more you have, poor unprovided creatures ! Still 
I think we can manage it. Come home with me.’ 

“ ‘ You won’t eat us, will you ? ’ said Buffy. 

“ ‘ My dear child,’ answered the spider, in atone of injured 
dignity, ‘ 1 eat nothing but what is mischievous or useless. 
You have helped me, and now I will help you.’ 

“ The children rose at once, and, climbing as well as they 
could, reached the spider’s nest in the centre of the web. 
They did not find it very difficult ; for, whenever too great a 
gap came, the spider, spinning a strong cord, stretched it just 
where they would have chosen to put their feet next. He left 
them in his nest, after bringing them two enormous honey-bags, 
taken from bees that he had caught. Presently about six of the 
wisest of the spiders came back with him. It was rather hor- 
rible to look up and see them all round the mouth of the nest, 
looking down on them in contemplation, as if wondering wheth- 
er they would be nice eating. At length one of them said : — 

“ ‘ Tell us truly what you want with the eagle, and we will 
try to help you.’ 

“ Then Tricksey-Wee told them that there was a giant on 
the borders who treated little children no better than radishes, 
and that they had narrowly escaped being eaten by him ; that 
they had found out that the great sho-eagle of Mount Sky- 
crack was at present sitting on his heart ; and that, if they 
could only get hold of the heart, they would soon teach the 
giant better behavior. 

“ ‘ But,’ said their host, ‘if you get at the heart of the 
giant, you will find it as large as one of your elephants. What 
can y)u do with it? ’ 

, “ ‘ The least scratch will kill it,’ answered Buffy-Bob. 

“ ‘ All ! but you might do better than that,’ said the spider. 

‘ Now we have resolved to help you. Here is a little bag of 
spider-juice. The giants cannot bear spiders, and this juice is 
dreadful poison to them. We are all ready to go up with you, 


304 


ADELA CATHCART. 


and drive the eagle away. Then you must put the heart into 
this other bag, and bring it down with you ; for then the giant 
will be in your power.’ 

“ ‘ But how can we do that? ’ said Buffy. 4 The bag is not 
much bigger than a pudding-bag.’ 

“ ‘ But it is as large as you will find convenient to carry.’ 

“ ‘ Yes ; but what are we to do with the heart ? ’ 

“ ‘ Put it into the bag, to be sure. Only, first, you must 
squeeze a drop out of the other bag upon it. You will see 
what will happen.’ 

“‘Very well; we will,’ said Tricksey-Wee. ‘And now, j 
if you please, how shall we go ? ’ 

“ £ Oh, that’s our business,’ said the first spider. ‘ You 
come with me, and my grandfather will take your brother. 
Get up.’ 

“ So Tricksey-Wee mounted on the narrow part of the spi- 
der's back, and held fast. And Buffy-Bob got on the grand- 
father’s back. And up they scrambled, over one web after 
another, up and up. And every spider followed ; so that, when 
Tricksey-Wee looked back, she saw a whole army of spiders 
scrambling after them. 

“‘What can we want with so many?’ she thought; but 
she said nothing. 

“ The moon was now up, and it was a splendid sight below 
and around them. All Giantland was spread out under them, ! 
• with its great hills, lakes, trees, and animals. And all above 
them was the clear heaven, and Mount Skycrack rising into 
it, with its endless ladders of spider-webs, glittering like cords 
made of moonbeams. And up the moonbeams went, crawling, 
and scrambling, and racing, a huge army of huge spider3. 

“At length they reached all but the very summit, where 
they stopped. Tricksey-Wee and Buffy-Bob could see above 
them a great globe of feathers, that finished off the mountain 
like an ornamental knob. 

“ ‘ How shall we drive her off? ’ said Buffy. 

“ ‘ We’ll soon manage that,’ said the grandfather spider. 

‘ Come on, you, down there.’ 

“Up rushed the whole army, past the children, over the 
edge of the nest, on to the she-eagle, and buried themselves in 
her feathers. In a moment she became very restless, and want 


ADELA CATHCART. 


805 


picking about with her beak. All at once she spread out her 
wings, with a sound like a whirlwind, and flew off to bathe in 
the sea ; and then the spiders began to drop from her in all 
directions on their gossamer wings. The children had to hold 
fast to keep the wind of the eagle’s flight from blowing them 
off. As soon as it was over, they looked into the nest, and 
there lay the giant’s heart, an awful and ugly thing. 

“ £ Make haste, child,’ said Tricksey’s spider. So Trick- 
sey took her bag, and squeezed a drop out of it upon the heart. 
She thought she heard the giant give a far-off roar of pain, 
and she nearly fell from her seat with terror. The heart 
instantly began to shrink. It shrunk and shrivelled till it 
was nearly gone ; and Buffy-Bob caught it up and put it into 
the bag. Then the two spiders turned and went down again 
as fast as they could. Before they got to the bottom, they heard 
the shrieks of the she-eagle over the loss of her egg ; but the 
spiders told them not to be alarmed, for her eyes were too big 
to see them. By the time they reached the foot of the moun- 
tain, all the spiders had got home, and were busy again catch- 
ing flies, as if nothing had happened. So the children, after 
renewed thanks to their friends, set off, carrying the giant’s 
heart with them. 

“ 1 If you should find it at all troublesome, just give it a lit- 
tle more spider-juice directly,’ said the grandfather, as they 
took their leave. 

“ Now, the giant had given an awful roar of pain, the 
moment they anointed his heart, and had fallen down in a fit, 
in which he lay so long that all the boys might have escaped if 
they had not been so fat. One did, — and got home in safety. 
For days the giant was unable to speak. The first words he 
uttered were : — 

u 1 Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 5 

“ 1 Your heart is safe enough, dear Thunderthump, ? said his 
wife. ‘ Really a man of your size ought not to be so nervous 
and apprehensive. I am ashamed of you.’ 

“ 1 You have no heart, Doodlem,’ answered he. ‘ I assure 
you that at this moment mine is in the greatest danger. It 
has fallen into the hands of foes, though who they are I can- 
not tell.’ 

“ Here he fainted again ; for Tricksey-Wee, finding the heart 
20 


306 


ADELA CATHCART. 


begin to swell a little, had given it the least touch of spider- 
juice. 

“ Again he recovered, and said : — 

“ ‘ Dear Doodlem, my heart is coming back to me. It ia 
coming nearer and nearer.’ 

u After lying silent for a few hours, he exclaimed : — 

“ £ It is in the house, I know ! ’ And he jumped up and 
walked about, looking in every corner. 

“ Just then, Tricksey-Wee and Buffy-Bob came out of the 
hole in the tree-root, and through the cat-hole in the door, and 
walked boldly towards the giant. Both kept their eyes busy 
watching him. Led by the love of his own heart, the giant 
soon spied them, and staggered furiously towards them. 

“‘I will eat you, you vermin ! ’ he cried. 1 Give me my 
heart.’ 

“ Tricksey gave the heart a sharp pinch ; when down fell 
the giant on his knees, blubbering, and crying, and begging 
for his heart. 

“ 1 You shall have it if you behave yOurself properly,’ said 
Tricksey. 

“ ‘ What do you want me to do? ’ asked he, whimpering. 

“ 1 To take all those boys and girls, and carry them home 
at once.’ 

“ 1 I’m not able ; I’m too ill.’ 

11 1 Take them up directly.’ 

“ 1 I can’t till you give me my heart.’ 

“ i Very well!’ said Tricksey; and she gave the heart 
another pinch. 

“ The giant jumped to his feet, and, catching up all the chil- 
dren, thrust some into his waistcoat-pockets, some into his 
breast-pocket, put two or three into his hat, and took a bundle 
of them under each arm. Then he staggered to the door. All 
this time poor Doodlem was sitting in her arm-chair, crying, 
and mending a white stocking. 

o o 

“ The giant led the way to the borders. He could not go 
fast, so that Buflfy and Tricksey managed to keep up with him. 
When they reached the borders, they thought it would be 
safer to let the children find their own way borne. So the^ 
told him to set them down. He obeyed 




ADELA CATHCART. 


807 


il 1 Have you put them all down, Mr. Thunderthump ? 5 asked 
Tricksey-Wee. 

“ £ Yes , 5 said the giant. 

u £ That’s a lie ! ’ squeaked a little voice; and out came a 
head from his waistcoat-pocket. 

“ Tricksey-Wee pinched the heart till the giant roared with 
pain. 

“ 1 You’re not a gentleman. You tell stories , 5 she said. 

“‘He was the thinnest of the lot , 5 said Thunderthump, 
crying. 

“ 1 Are you all there now, children? 5 asked Tricksey. 

“ 1 Yes, ma’am , 5 said they, after counting themselves very 
carefully, and with some difficulty ; for they were all stupid 
children. 

“ * Now , 5 said Tricksey-Wee to the giant, 1 will you prom- 
ise to carry off no more children, and never to eat a child again 
all your life ? 5 

“ £ Yes ! yes ! I promise , 5 answered Thunderthump, sobbing. 

4k 1 And you will never cross the borders of Giantland? 5 

“ 1 Never . 5 

11 1 And you shall never again wear white stockings on a 
Sunday, all your life long. — Do you promise ? 5 

“ The giant hesitated at this, and began to expostulate ; but 
Tricksey-Wee, believing it would be good for his morals, in- 
sisted ; and the giant promised. 

“ Then she required of him, that, when she gave him back 
his heart, he should give it to his wife to take care of for him for- 
ever after. The poor giant fell on his knees and began again 
to beg. But Tricksey-Wee giving the heart a slight pinch, 
he bawled out : — 

“ £ Yes, yes ! Doodlem shall have it, I swear. Only she 
must not put it in the flour-barrel, or in the dust-hole . 5 

“ £ Certainly not. Make your own bargain with her. — 
And you promise not to interfere with my brother and me, or 
to take any revenge for what we have done ? 5 

££ £ Yes, yes, my dear children ; I promise everything. Do, 
pray, make haste and give me back my poor heart. 

££ £ Wait there, then, till I bring it to you . 5 

“ £ Yes, yes. Only make haste, for I feel very faint . 5 

“ Tricksey-Wee began to undo the mouth of the bag. But 


308 


ADELA CATHCART. 


Buffy-Bob, who had got very knowing on his travels, took out 
his knife with the pretence of cutting the string ; but, in real- 
ity, to be prepared for any emergency. 

“ No sooner was the heart out of the bag than it expanded 
to the size of a bullock ; and the giant, with a yell of rage 
and vengeance, rushed on the two children, who had stepped 
sideways from the terrible heart. But BufFy-Bob was too 
quick for Thunderthump. He sprang to the heart, and buried 
his knife in it up to the hilt. A fountain of blood spouted 
from it ; and, with a dreadful groan, the giant fell dead at the 
feet of little Tricksey-Wee, who could not help being sorry for 
him, after all.” 

“ Silly thing ! ” said a little wisehead. 

“ What a horrid story ! ” said one small girl with great eyes, 
who sat staring into the fire. 

“I don’t think it at all a nice story for supper, with those 
horrid spiders, too,” said an older girl. 

“Well, let us have a game and forget it,” I said. 

“ No; that we shan’t, I am sure,” said one. 

“ I will tell our Amy. Won’t it be fun ?” 

“ She'll scream,” said another. 

“ I’ll tell her all the more.” 

“No, no; you mustn’t be unkind,” said I; “else you will 
never help little children against wicked giants. The giants 
will eat you too, then.” 

“ Oh ! I know what you mean. You can’t frighten me.” • 

This was said by one of the elder girls, who promised fair to 
reach before long the summit of uncompromising womanhood. 
She made me feel very small with my moralizing ; so I dropped 
it. On the whole I was rather disappointed with the effect of 
my story. Perhaps the disappointment was no more than 1 
dsserved ; but I did not like to think I had failed with chil- 
dren. 

Nor did I think so any longer after a darling little blue- 
eyed girl, who had sat next me at tea, came to me to say good- 
night, and, reaching up, put her arms round my neck and kissed 
me, and then whispered very gently : — 

“Thank you, dear Mr. Smith. L I will be good. It was a 
Very nice story. If I was a man, I would kill all the wicked 


ADELA CATHCAET. 


309 


people in the world. But I am only a little girl, you know 
bo I can only be good.” 

The darling did not know how much more one good woman 
can do to kill evil than all the swords of the world in the hands 
of righteous heroes. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A child’s holiday. 

When the next evening of our assembly came, I could see 
on Adela’s face a look of subdued expectation, and I knew now 
to what to attribute it : Harry was going to read. There was 
a restlessness in her eyelids, — they were always rising, and 
falling as suddenly. But when the time drew near, they grew 
more still ; only her color went and came a little. By the 
time we were all seated, she was as quiet as death. Harry 
pulled out a manuscript. 

“ Have you any objection to a ballad story? ” he asked of 
the company generally. 

‘‘Certainly not,” was the common reply ; though Ralph 
stared a little, and his wife looked at him. I believe the rea- 
son was, that they had never known Harry write poetry before. 
But as soon as he had uttered the title — “ The Two Gor- 
dons ” — „ 

“ You young rascal ! ” cried his brother. “ Am I to keep 
you in material forever? Are you going to pluck my wings 
till they are as bare as an egg? Really, ladies and gentle- 
men,” he continued, in pretended anger, while Harry was 
keeping down a laugh of keen enjoyment, “it is too bad of 
that scapegrace brother of mine ! Of course you are all wel - 
come to anything I have got ; but he has no right to escape 
from his responsibilities on that account. It is rude to us all. 
I know he can write if he likes.” 

“ Why, Ralph, you would be glad of such a brother to steal 
your sermons from, if you had been up all night as I was. Of 
course I did not mean to claim any more credit than that of 


310 


ADELA CATHCART. 


unearthing some of jour shy verses. May I read them or 
not? ” 

“ Oh ! of course. But it is lucky I came prepared for some 
escapade of the sort, and brought a manuscript of proper weight 
and length in my pocket.” 

Suddenly Harry’s face changed from a laughing to a grave 
one. I saw how it was. He had glanced at Adela, and her 
look of unmistakable disappointment was reflected in bis face. 
But there was a glimmer of pleasure in his eyes, notwith- 
standing ; and I fancied I could see that the pleasure would 
have been more marked, had he not feared that he had placed 
himself at a disadvantage with her, namely, that she would 
suppose him incapable of producing a story. However, it was 
only for a moment that this change of feeling stopped him. 
With a gesture of some haste he reopened the manuscript, 
which he had rolled up as if to protect it from the indignation 
of his brother, and read the following ballad : — 


“THE TWO GORDONS. 


I. 

“There was John Gordon, and Archibold, 

And an earl’s twin sons were they. 

When they were one and twenty years old, 
They fell out on their birthday. 

“ ‘ Turn,’ said Archibold, ‘ brother sly ! 

Turn now, false and fell ; 

Or down thou goest, as black as a lie, 

To the father of lies in hell.’ 

u ‘ Why this to me, brother Archie, I pray? 
What ill have I done to thee ? ’ — 

‘ Smooth-faced hound, thou shalt rue the day 
Thou gettest an answer of me. 

“ ‘ For mine will be louder than Lady Janet’s, 
And spoken in broad daylight ; 

And the wall to scale is my iron mail, 

Not her castle wall at night.’ 

“ ‘ I clomb the wall of her castle tall, 

In the moon and the roaring wind; 

It was dark and still in her bower until 
The morning looked in behind.’ 


ADELA CATHCART 


311 


“ ‘ Turn, therefore, John Gordon, false brother ; 
For either thou or I, 

On a hard, wet bed — wet, cold, and red, 

For evermore shall lie.’ 

“ ‘ O Archibold, Janet is my true love ; 

Would I had told it thee ! ’ — 

‘ I hate thee the worse. Turn, or I’ll curse 
The night that got thee and me.’ 

“ Their swords they drew, and the sparks they flew, 
As if hammers did anvils beat ; 

And the red blood ran. till the ground began 
To plash beneath their feet. 

“ ‘ O Archie ! thou hast given me a cold supper, 

A supper of steel, I trow ; 

But reach me one grasp of a brother’s hand, 

And turn me, before you go.’ 

“ But he turned himself on his gold-spurred heel, 
And away, with a speechless frown ; 

And up in the oak, with a greedy croak, 

The carrion-crow claimed his own. 


ii. 

“ The sun looked over a cloud of gold; 

Lady Margaret looked over the wall. 

Over the bridge rode Archibold ; 

Behind him his merry men all. 

“ He leads his band to the holy land. 

They follow with merry din. 

A white Christ’s cross is on his back ; 

In his breast a darksome sin. 

** And the white cross burned him like the Are 
That he could nor eat nor rest; 

It burned in and in, to get at the sin 
That lay cowering in his breast. 

“ A mile from the shore of the Dead Sea 
The army lay one night. 

Lord Archibold rose ; and out he goes, 
Walking in the moonlight. 

« He came to the shore of the old salt sea, 
Yellow sands with frost-like tinge ; 

The bones of the dead, on the edge jf it;s be$, 
Lay lapped in its oozy fringe. 


312 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ He sat him down on a half-sunk stone, 

And he sighed so dreary and deep : 

‘ The devil may take my soul when I wake, 

If he’d only let me sleep ! ’ 

“ Out from the bones and the slime and the stones. 

Came a voice like a raven’s croak : 

‘ Was it thou, Lord Archibold Gordon? ’ it said, 

Was it thou those words that spoke? ’ 

i 

“ * I’ll say them again,’ quoth Archibold, 

‘ Be thou ghost or fiend of the deep.* 

* Lord Archibold, heed how thou mayst speed, 

If thou sell me thy soul for sleep.’ 

“ Lord Archibold laughed with a loud ha l ha ! — 

The Dead Sea curdled to hear; 

‘ Thou wouldst have the worst of the bargain curst; 

It has every fault but fear.* 

“ ‘Done, Lord Archibold? ’ — * Lord Belzebub, done!* 

His laugh came back in a moan. 

The salt glittered on, and the white moon shone, 

And Lord Archibold was alone. 

■ 

“ And back he went to his glimmering tent ; 

And down in his cloak he lay ; 

And sound he slept ; .and a pale-faced man 
Watched by his bed till day. 

“ And if ever he turned or moaned in his sleep, 

Or his brow began to lower, 

Oh ! gentle and clear, in the sleeper’s ear, 

He would whisper words of power; 

“ Till his lips would quiver, and sighs of bliss 
From sorrow’s bosom would break ; 

And the tear, soft and slow, would gather and flow ; 

And yet he would not wake. 

“ Every night the pale-faced man 
Sat by his bed, I say ; 

And in mail rust-brown, with his visor down, 

Rode beside him in battle-fray. 

“ But well I wot that it was not 
The devil that took his part ; 

But his twin-brother John, he thought dead and gone, 

Who followed to ease his heart. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


313 


III. 

44 Home came Lord Archibold, weary wight, 

Home to his own countree; 

And he cried, when his castle came in sight, 

* Now Christ me save and see ! * 

“ And the man in rust-brown, with his visor down, 
Had gone, he knew not where. 

And he lighted down, and into the hall. 

And his mother met him there. 

“ But dull was her eye, though her mien was high ; 
And she spoke like Eve to Cain : 

* Lord Archibold Gordon, answer me true, 

Or I’ll never speak again. 

44 ‘ Where is thy brother, Lord Archibold? 

He was flesh and blood of thine. 

Has thy brother’s keeper laid him cold, 

Where the warm sun cannot shine?’ 

44 Lord Archibold could not speak a word, 

For his heart was almost broke. 

He turned to go. The carrion-crow 
At the window gave a croak. 

44 ‘Now where art thou going, Lord Archie?’ she said, 
With thy lips so white and thin? ’ — 

‘ Mother, good-by; I am going to lie 
In the earth with my brother-twin.’ 

44 Lady Margaret sank on her couch. * Alas ! 

I shall lose them both to-day.’ 

Lord Archibold strode along the road, 

To the field of the Brothers’ Fray. 

“ He came to the spot where they had fought, 

‘ My God ! ’ he cried in fright, 

‘ They have left him there, till his bones are bar© j 
Through the plates they glimmer white.’ 

For his brother’s armor lay there, dank, 

And worn with frost and dew. 

Had the long, long grass, that grew so rank, 

Grown the very armor through ? 

“ ‘ O brother, brother ! ’ cried the Earl, 

With a loud, heart-broken wail, 

‘ I would put my soul into thy bones, 

To see thee alive and hale.’ 


ADELA CATIICART. 


214 


“ ‘ Ha ! ha ! ’ said a voice from out the helm,— 
’Twas the voice of the Dead Sea shore ; 

And the joints did close, and the armor rose, 
And clattered, and grass uptore. 

“ ‘ Thou canst put no soul into his bones, 

Thy brother alive to set ; 

For the sleep was thine, and thy soul is mine. 
And, Lord Archibold, well-met ! ’ 

“ ‘ Two words to that ! * said the fearless Earl $ 

‘ The sleep was none of thine ; 

For I dreamed of my brother all the night, — 
His soul brought the sleep to mine. 

“ ‘ But I care not a crack for a soul so black, 
And thou mayst have it yet 

I would let it burn to eternity, 

My brother alive to set.’ 

“ The demon lifted his beaver up, 

Crusted with blood and mould ; 

And lo ! John Gordon looked out of the helm, 
And smiled upon Archibold. 

“ ‘ Thy soul is mine, brother Archie,’ he said, 

‘ And I yield it thee none the worse ; 

No devil came near thee, Archie, lad, 

But a brother to be thy nurse.’ 

“ Lord Archibold fell upon his knee, 

On the blood-fed, bright green sod : 

* The soul that my brother gives back to me 
Is thine forever, O God ! ’ ” 


“Now for a piece of good, honest prose ! ” said the curate, 
the moment Harry had finished, without allowing room for any 
remarks. “ That is, if the ladies and gentlemen will allow me 
to read once more.” 

Of course, all assented heartily. 

“ It is nothing of a story, but I think it is something of a 
picture, drawn principally from experiences of my own child- 
hood, which I told you was spent chiefly in the north of 
Scotland. The one great joy of the year, although some 
years went without it altogether, was the summer visit paid to 
the shores of the Moray Firth. My story is merely a record 
of some of the impressions left on myself by such a visit, 


ADELA CATHCART. 


315 


although the boy is certainly not a portrait of myself ; and if 
it has no result, no end, reaching beyond childhood into what 
is commonly called life, I presume it is not of a peculiar or 
solitary character in that respect ; for surely many that we 
count finished stories — life-histories — must look very different 
to the angels ; and if they haven’t to be written over again, 
at least they have to be carried on a few aeons further. 

“A CHILD’S HOLIDAY. 

“ Before the door of a substantial farm-house in the north 
of Scotland stands a vehicle of somewhat singular construc- 
tion. When analyzed, however, its composition proves to bo 
simple enough. It is a common agricultural cart, over which, 
by means of a few iron rods bent across, a semi-cylindrical 
covering of white canvas has been stretched. It is thus trans- 
formed from a hay or harvest cart into a family carriage, of 
comfortable dimensions, though somewhat slow of progress. 
The lack of springs is supplied by thick layers of straw, while 
sacks stuffed with the same material are placed around for seats. 
Various articles are being stowed away under the bags, and in 
the corners among the straw, by children with bright, expectant 
faces ; the said articles having been in process of collection 
and arrangement for a month or six weeks previous, in antici- 
pation of the journey w’hich now lies, in all its length and 
brightness, — the length and brightness of a long northern 
summer’s day, — before them. 

“At last, all their private mysteries of provisions, play- 
things, and books having found places of safety more or less 
accessible on demand, every motion of the horse, every shake 
and rattle of the covered cart, makes them only more impa- 
tient to proceed ; which desire is at length gratified by their 
moving on at a funeral pace through the open gate. They are 
followed by another cart loaded with the luggage necessary for 
a six-weeks’ sojourn at one of the fishing-villages on the coast, 
about twenty miles distant from their home. Their father 
and mother are to follow in the gig, at a later hour in the 
day, expecting to overtake them about half-way on the road. 
Through the neighboring village they pass, out upon the lone* 
ly highway. 


316 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ Some seeds are borne to the place of their destiny by their 
own wings and the wings of the wind, some by the wings of 
birds, some by simple gravitation. The seed of my story, 
namely, the covered cart, sent forth to find the soil for its com- 
ing growth, is dragged by a stout horse to the sea-shore ; and 
as it oscillates from side to side like a balloon trying to walk, 

I shall say something of its internal constitution, and princi- 
pally of its germ ; for, regarded as the seed of my story, a 
pale boy of thirteen is the germ of the cart. First, though he 
will be of little use to us afterwards, comes a great strong boy 
of sixteen, who considerably despises this mode of locomotion, ; 
believing himself quite capable of driving his mother in the 
gig, whereas he is only destined to occupy her place in the i 
evening, and return with his father. Then comes the said | 
germ, a boy whom repeated attacks of illness have blanched, 
and who looks as if the thinness of its earthly garment made 
his soul tremble with the proximity of the ungenial world, j 
Then follows a pretty blonde, with smooth hair, and smooth 
cheeks, and bright blue eyes, — the embodiment of home pleas- I 
ures and love ; whose chief enjoyment, and earthly destiny 
indeed, so far as yet revealed, consist in administering to the 
cupidities of her younger brother, a very ogre of gingerbread ! 
men, and Silenus of bottled milk. This milk, by the way, is j 
expected, from former experience, to afford considerable pleas- 
ure at the close of the journey, in the shape of one or two 
pellets of butter in each bottle ; the novelty of the phenome- 1 
non, and not any scarcity of the article, constituting the ground 
of interest. A baby on the lap of a rosy country-girl, and the 
servant in his blue Sunday coat, who sits outside the cover on 
the edge of the cart, but looks in occasionally to show some 
attention to the young woman, complete the contents of the 
vehicle. 

“Herbert Netherby, though, as I have said, only thirteen 
years of age, had already attained a degree of mental develop- I 
ment sufficient for characterization. Disease had favored the 
almost unhealthy predominance of the mental over the bodily 
powers of the child ; so that, although the constitution which 
at one time was supposed to have entirely given way, had for 
the last few years been gradually gaining strength, he was 
still to be seen far oftener walking about with his hands in his 


ADELA CATHCART. 


817 


pockets, and his gaze bent on the ground, or turned up to the 
clouds, than joining in any of the boyish sports of those of 
his own age. A nervous dread of ridicule would deter him 
from taking his part, even when for a moment the fountain of 
youthfulness gushed forth, and impelled him to find rest in 
activity. So the impulse would pass away, and he would re- 
lapse into his former quiescence. But this partial isolation 
ministered to the growth of a love of Nature which, although 
its roots were coeval with his being, might not have so soon 
appeared above ground but for this lack of human companion- 
ship. Thus the boy became one of Nature’s favorites, and 
enjoyed more than a common share of her teaching. 

“ But he loved her most in her stranger moods. The gath- 
ering of a blue cloud, on a sultry summer afternoon, he watched 
with intense hope, in expectation of a thunder-storm; and a 
■windy night, after harvest, when the trees moaned and tossed 
their arms about, and the wind ran hither and thither over the 
desolate fields of stubble, made the child’s heart dance within 
him, and sent him out careering through the deepening dark- 
ness. To meet him then, you would not have known him for 
the sedate, actionless boy, whom you had seen in the morning 
looking listlessly on while his school-fellows played. But, of 
all his loves for the shows of Nature., none was so strong as 
his love for water, — common to childhood, with its mills of 
rushes, its dams, its bridges, its aqueducts ; only in Herbert 
it was more a quiet, delighted contemplation. Weakness pre- 
vented his joining his companions in the river ; but the sight 
of their motions in the mystery of the water, as they floated 
half idealized in the clear depth, or glided along by graceful 
propulsion, gave him as much real enjoyment as they received 
themselves. For it was water itself that delighted him, wheth- 
er in rest or motion ; whether rippling over many stones, like 
the first half-articulate sounds' of a child’s speech, mingled 
with a strange musical tremble and cadence which the heart 
only, and not the ear, could detect ; or lying in deep, still pools, 
from the bottom of which gleamed up bright green stones, or 
yet brighter water-plants, cool in their little grotto, with water 
for an atmosphere and a firmament, through which the sun- 
rays came, washed of their burning heat, but undimmed or 
their splendor. He would lie for an hour by the side of a hili- 


318 


ADELA CATHCART. 


streamlet ; he would stand gazing into a muddy pool, left on 
the road by last night’s rain. Once, in such a brown-yellow 
pool, he beheld a glory, — the sun, encircled with a halo vast 
and wide, varied like the ring of opal colors seen about the 
moon when she floats through white clouds, only larger and 
brighter than that. Looking up, he could see nothing but a 
chaos of black clouds, brilliant towards the sun ; the colors he 
could not see, except in the muddy water. 

“ In autumn the rains would come down for days, and the 
river grow stormy, forget its clearness, and spread out like a 
lake over the meadows ; and that was delightful indeed. But 
greater yet was the delight when the foot-bridge was carried 
away ; for then they had to cross the stream in a boat. He 
longed for water where it could not be ; would fain have seen ! 
it running through the grass in front of his father’s house; ; 
and had a waking vision of a stream with wooden shores that 
babbled through his bedroom. So it may be fancied with what 
delight he overheard the parental decision that they should 
spend some weeks by the shores of the great world-water, the 
father and the grave of rivers. 

“After many vain outlooks and fruitless inquiries of their 
driver, a sudden turn in the road brought them in sight of the 
sea between the hills ; itself resembling a low blue hill, cov- 
ered with white stones. Indeed, the little girl only doubted 
whether those were white stones or sheep scattered all over it. 
They lost sight of it ; saw it again ; and hailed it with greater 
rapture than at first. 

“The sun was more than half-way down when they arrived. 
They had secured a little cottage, almost on the brow of the 
high shore, which in most places went down perpendicularly to 
the beach or sands, and in some right into deep water ; but 
opposite the cottage declined with a sloping, grassy descent. 

A winding track led down to the village, which nestled in a 
hollow with steep footpaths radiating from it. In front of it, 
lower still, lay the narrow beach, narrow even at low water, , 
for the steep, rocky shore went steep and rocky down into the 
abyss. A thousand fantastic rocks stood between land and 
water ; amidst which, at half-tide, were many little rocky 
arbors, with floors of sunny sand, and three or four feet of 
water. Here you might bathe, or sit on the ledges with youi 


ADELA CATHCART. 


319 


feet in the water, medicated with the restless glitter and bewil- 
derment of a half-dissolved sunbeam. 

“ A promontory, curving out into the sea, on the right, 
formed a bay and natural harbor, from which, towards the set- 
ting sun, many fishing-boats were diverging into the wide sea, 
as the children, stiff and weary, were getting out of the cart. 
Herbert’s fatigue was soon forgotten in watching their brown- 
dyed sails, glowing almost red in the sunset, as they went out 
far into the dark, hunters of the deep, to spend the night on 
the waters. 

“ From the windows the children could not see the shore, 
with all its burst of beauties struck out from the meeting of 
things unlike ; for it lay far down, and the brow of the hill 
rose between it and them ; only they knew that below the waves 
were breaking on the rocks, and they heard the gush and roar 
filling all the air. The room in which Herbert slept was a 
little attic, with a window towards the sea. After gazing with 
unutterable delight on the boundless water, which lay like a 
condensed sky in the gray light of the sleeping day (for there 
is no night at this season in the North), till he saw it even 
when his eyelids closed from weariness, he lay down, and the 
monotonous lullaby of the sea mingled with his dreams. 

u Next morning he was wakened by the challenging and 
replying of the sentinel-cocks, whose crowing sounded to him 
more clear and musical than that of any of the cocks at home. 
He jumped out of bed. It was a sunny morning, and his soul 
felt like a flake of sunshine, as he looked out of his window 
on the radiant sea, green and flashing, its clear surface here 
and there torn by the wind into spots of opaque white. So 
happy did he feel, that he might have been one who had slept 
through death and the judgment, and had awaked, a child, still 
in the kingdom of God, under the new heavens and upon tho 
new earth. 

“ After breakfast they all went down with their mother to 
the sea-shore. As they went, the last of the boats which had 
gone out the night before were returning laden, like bees. 
The sea had been bountiful. Everything shone with gladness. 
But, as Herbert drew nearer, he felt a kind of dread at the 
recklessness of the waves. On they hurried, assailed the rocks, 
devoured the sands, cast themselves in wild abandonment on 


320 


ADELA CATHCART. 


whatever opposed them. He feared at first to go near, for they 
were unsympathizing, caring not for his love or his joy, and 
would sweep him away like one of those floating sea-weeds. ; 
1 If they are such in their play,’ thought he, ‘ what must they 1 
be in their anger ! ’ But ere long he was playing with the 
sea as with a tame tiger, chasing the retreating waters till they 
rallied and he, in his turn, had to flee from their pursuit , 
Wearied at length, he left his brother and sister building 
castles of wet sand, and wandered alone along the shore. 

u Everywhere about lay shallow lakes of salt water, so shal 
low that they were invisible, except when a puff of wind blew a 
thousand ripples into the sun ; whereupon they flashed as if a 
precipitous rain of stormy light had rushed down upon them 
Lifting his eyes from one of these films of water, Herbert saw i 
on the opposite side, stooping to pick up some treasure of the 
sea, a little girl, apparently about nine years of age. When 
she raised herself and saw Herbert, she moved slowly away 
with a quiet grace, that strangely contrasted with her tattered I 
garments. She was ragged like the sea-shore, or the bunch 
of dripping sea weed that she carried in her hand ; she was 
bare from foot to knee, and passed over the wet sand with a 
gleam ; the wind had been at more trouble with her hair than j 
any loving hand; it was black, lustreless, and tangled. The 
sight of rags was always enough to move Herbert’s sympa- 
thies, and he wished to speak to the little girl, and give her 
something. But when he had followed her a short distance, I 
all at once, and without having looked round, she began to 
glide away from him with a wave-like motion, dancing and 
leaping ; till a clear pool in the hollow of a tabular rock im- 
bedded in the sand arrested her progress. Here she stood 
like a statue, gazing into its depth ; then, with a dart like a 
kingfisher, plunged half into it, caught something, at which 
her head and curved neck showed that she looked with satis- 
faction, and again, before Herbert could come near her, was 
skimming along the uneven shore. He followed, as a boy 
follows a lapwing ; but she, like the lapwing, gradually 
increased the distance between them, till he gave up the pur- 
suit with some disappointment, and returned to his brother 
and sister. More ambitious than they, he proceeded to 
construct — chiefly for the sake of the moat he intended to 


ADELA CATHCART. 


321 


draw around it — a sand-castle of considerable pretensions ; 
but the advancing tide drove him from his stronghold before he 
had begun to dig the projected fosse. 

“ As they returned home, they passed a group of fishermen 
in their long boots and flapped sou’-westers, looking somewhat 
anxiously seaward. Much to Herbert’s delight, they predicted 
a stiff gale, and probably a storm. A low bank of cloud had 
gathered along the horizon, and the wind had already freshened ; 
the white spots were thicker on the waves, and the sound of 
their trampling on the shore grew louder 

“ After dinner, they sat at the window of their little parlor, 
looking out over the sea, which grew darker and more sullen, 
ever as the afternoon declined. The cloudy bank had risen 
and walled out the sun ; but a narrow space of blue on the 
horizon looked like the rent whence the wind rushed forth on 
the sea, and with the feet of its stormy horses tore up the blue 
surface, and scattered the ocean-dust in clouds. As evening 
drew on, Herbert could keep in the house no longer. He 
wandered away on the heights, keeping from the brow of the 
cliffs ; now and then stooping and struggling with a itormier 
eddy ; till, descending into a little hollow, he sunk below the 
plane of the tempest, and stood in the glow of a sudden calm, 
hearing the tumult all round him, but himself in peace. 
Looking up, he could see nothing but the sides of the hollow 
with the sky resting on them, till, turning towards the sea, he 
saw, at some distance, a point of the cliff rising abruptly into 
the air. At the same moment, the sun looked out from a 
crack in the clouds, on the very horizon ; and as Herbert could 
not see the sunset, the peculiar radiance illuminated the more 
strangely the dark vault of earth and cloudy sky. Suddenly, 
to his astonishment, it was concentrated on the form of the 
little ragged girl. She stood on the summit of the peak before 
him. The light was a crown, not to her head only, but to her 
whole person ; as if she herself were the crown set on the 
brows of the majestic shore. Disappearing as suddenly, it 
left her standing on the peak, dark and stormy ; every tress, 
if tresses they could be called, of her windy hair, every tatter 
of her scanty garments, seeming individually to protest, ‘ The 
wind is my playmate ; let me go ! ’ If Aphrodite was born of 
the sunny sea, this child wa3 the offspring of the windy shore ; 


822 


ADELA CATIICART. 


as if the mind of the place had developed foi itself a con- 
sciousness, and this was its embodiment. She bore a strange 
affinity to the rocks, and the sea-weed, and the pools, and the 
wide, wild ocean; and Herbert would scarcely have been 
shocked to see her cast herself from the cliff into the waves, 
which now dashed half-way up its height. By the time he had 
got out of the hollow, she had vanished, and where she had 
gone he could not conjecture. He half feared she had fallen 
over the precipice; and several times that night, as the vapor 
of dreams gathered around him, he started from his half-sleep 
in terror at seeing the little genius of the storm fall from her 
rock-pedestal into the thundering waves at its foot. 

“Next day the wind continuing off the sea, with vapor 
and rain, the children were compelled to remain within doors, 
and betake themselves to books and playthings. But Herbert’s 
chief resource lay in watching the sea and the low gray sky, 
between which was no distinguishable horizon. The wind 
still increased, and before the afternoon it blew a thorough 
storm, winds and waves raging together on the rocky shore. 
The fishermen had secured their boats, drawing them up high 
on the land; but what vessels might be laboring under the 
low misty pall no one could tell. Many anxious fears were 
expressed for some known to be at sea ; and many tales of 
shipwreck were told that night in the storm-shaken cottages. 

“ The day was closing in, darkened the sooner by the mist, 
when Herbert, standing at the window, now rather weary, saw 
the little girl dart past like a petrel. He snatched up his cap 
and rushed from the house, buttoning his jacket to defend him 
from the weather. The little fellow, though so quiet among 
other boys, was a lover of the storm as much as the girl was, 
and would have preferred its buffeting, so long as his strength 
lasted, to the warmest nook by the fireside : and now he could 
not resist the temptation to follow her. As soon as he was 
clear of the garden, he saw her stopping to gaze down on the 
sea — starting again along the heights — blown out of her 
course — and regaining it by struggling up in the teeth of the 
storm. He at once hastened in pursuit, trying as much as 
possible to keep out of her sight, and was gradually lessening 
the distance between them, when, on crossing the hollow 
already mentioned, he saw her on the edge of the cliff, close 


ADELA CATIICART. 


823 


to the pinnacle on which she had stood the night before; 
where, after standing for a moment, she sank downwards and 
vanished, but whether into earth or air he could not tell. He 
approached the place. A blast of more than ordinary violence 
fought against him, as if determined to preserve the secret of 
its favorite’s refuge.. But he persisted, and gained the spot. 

“He then found that the real edge of the precipice was 
several yards farther off, the ground sloping away from where 
ho stood. At his feet, in the slope, was an almost perpen- 
dicular opening. He hesitated a little; but, sure that the 
child was a real human child and no phantom, he did not 
hesitate long. He entered and found it lead spirally down- 
wards. Descending with some difficulty, for the passage was 
narrow, he a. rived at a small chamber, into one corner of 
which the stone shaft, containing the stair, projected half its 
round. The chamber looked as if it had been hollowed out of 
the rock. A narrow window, little more than a loop-hole 
through, the thick wall, admitted the roar of the waves and a 
dim gray light. This light was just sufficient to show him the 
child in the farthest corner of the chamber, bending forward 
with her hands between her knees, in a posture that indicated 
fear. The little playfellow of the winds was not sure of him. 
At the first word he spoke, a sea-bird, which had made its 
home in the apartment, startled by the sound of his voice, 
dashed through the window, with a sudden clang of wing3, 
into the great misty void without ; and Herbert, looking out 
after it, almost forgot the presence of the little girl in the awe 
and delight of the spectacle before him. It was now much 
darker, and the fog had settled down more closely on the face 
of the deep; but just below him he could see the surface of 
the ocean, whose mad waves appeared to rush bellowing out of 
the unseen on to the shore of the visible. When, after some 
effort, he succeeded in leaning out of the window, he could see 
the shore beneath him ; for he was on its extreme verge, and 
the spray now and then dashed through the loop-hole into the 
chamber. He was still gazing and absorbed, when a sweet, 
timid voice, that yet partook undefinably of the wildness of a 
sea-breeze, startled him out of his contemplation. 

“ c Did my mother send you to me ? J said the voice. 

“ He looked down. Close beside him stood the child, gazing 


324 


ADELA CATHCART. 


earnestly up into his face through the rwilight from the 
window. 

“ ‘Where does your mother live?’ asked Herbert. 

“ ‘ All out there,’ the child answered, pointing to the window. 

“While he was thinking what she could mean, she contin- 
ued : — 

“ 1 Mother is angry to-night; but when the sun comes out, 
and those nasty clouds are driven away, she will laugh again. 
Mother does not like black clouds and fogs ; they spoil her 
house.’ 

“ Still perplexed as to the child’s meaning, Herbert asked : — 

“ ‘ Does your mother love you ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, except when she is angry. She does not love me 
to-night ; but to-morrow, perhaps, she will be all over laughs 
to me ; and that makes me run to her ; and she will smile to 
me all day, till night comes and she goes to sleep, and leaves 
me alone ; for I hear her sleeping, but I cannot go to sleep 
with her.’ ” 

Here the curate interrupted his reading to remark, that he 
feared he had spoiled the pathos of the child’s words, by trans- • 
lating them into English ; but that they must gain more, for 
the occasion, by being made intelligible to his audience, than 
they could lose by the change from their original form, 

“ Herbert’s sympathies had by this time made him suspect 
that the child must be talking of the sea, which somehow she 
had come to regard as her mother. He asked : — 

“ ‘ Where does your father live, then? ’ 

“ ‘ I have not any father,’ she answered. ‘ I had one, but 
mother took him.’ 

“ Several other questions Herbert put; but still the child’s 
notions ran in the same channel. They were wild notions, but 
uttered with confidence, as if they were the most ordinary facts. ! 
It seemed that whatever her imagination suggested, bore to her 
the impress of self-evident truth ; and that she knew no high- 
er reality. 

“ By this time it was almost dark. 

“ ‘ I must go home,’ said Herbert. 

“ ‘I will go with you.’ responded the girl. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


325 


“She ran along beside him, but in the discursive manner 
natural to her, till, coming to one of the paths descending 
towards the shore, she darted down, without saying good-night 
even. 

Next day, the storm having abated, and the sun shining 
out, they were standing on the beach, near a fisherman, who 
like them was gazing seawards, when the child went skimming 
past along the shore.. Mrs. Netherby asked the fisherman 
about her, and learned the secret of the sea’s motherhood. 
She had been washed ashore from the wreck of a vessel, and 
was found on the beach tied to a spar. All besides had per- 
ished. From the fragment they judged it to have been a 
Dutch vessel. Some one had said in her hearing, 1 Poor child ! 
the sea is her mother ; 1 and her imagination had cherished 
the idea. A fisherman, who had no family, had taken her to 
his house and loved her dearly. But he lost his wife shortly 
after ; and a year or two ago the sea had taken him, the only 
father she knew. All, however, were kind to her. She was 
welcome wherever she chose to go and share with the family. 
But no one knew to-day where she would be to-morrow, where 
she would have her next meal, or where she would sleep. 
She was wild, impulsive, affectionate. The simple people of 
the village believed her to be of foreign birth and high descent, 
while reverence for her lonely condition made them treat her 
with affection as well as deference ; so that the forsaken child, 
regarded as subject to no law, was as happy in her freedom and 
confidence as any wild winged thing of the land or sea. The 
summer loved her; the winter strengthened her. Her first 
baptism in the salt waters had made her a free creature of the 
earth and skies ; had fortified her, Achilles-like, against all 
hardship, cold, and nakedness to come ; had delivered her from 
the bonds of habit and custom, and shown in her what earth 
and air of themselves can do, to make the lowest, most unde- 
veloped life, a divine gift. 

“The following morning the sea was smooth and clear. So 
was the sky. Looking down from their cottage, the sea ap- 
peared to Herbert to slope steeply up to the horizon, so that 
the shore lay like a deep narrow valley between him and it. 
Far down, at the low pier, he saw a little boat belonging to a 
retired ship-captain. The oars were on board ; and the owner 


326 


ADELA CATE CART. 


and some one with him were walking towards the boat. Now 
the captain had promised to take him with him some day. 

He was half-way down the road a moment after the words 
of permission had left his mother’s lips, and was waiting at the 
boat when the two men came up. They readily agreed to let 
him go with them. They were going to row to a village on 
the opposite side of the bay, and return in the evening. Her- 
bert was speechless with delight. They got in, the boat heav- 
ing beneath them, unmoored, and pushed off. This suspension i 
between sea and sky was a new sensation to Herbert ; for when ; 
he looked down, his eye did not repose on the surface, but | 
penetrated far into a clear green abyss, where the power of 
vision seemed rather to vanish than be arrested. When he j 
looked up, the shore was behind them ; and he knew, for the 
first time, what it was to look at the land, as he had looked at 
the sea; to regard the land, in its turn, as a phenomenon, — 
observing it apart from himself. 

“ Running along the shore like a little bird, he saw the child j 
of the sea ; and further to the right, the peak on which she 
had stood in the sunset, and into whose mysterious chamber i 
she had led him. The captain here put a pocket-telescope into j 
his hand ; and with this annihilator of space he made new dis- j 
coveries. He saw a little window in the cliff, doubtless the 
same from which he had looked out on the dim sea; and then 
perceived that the front of the cliff, in that part, was no rock, 
but a wall, regularly and strongly built. It was evidently the 
remains of an old fortress. The front foundation had been laid 
in the rocks of the shore; the cliff had then been faced 
up with masonry ; and behind chambers had been cut in tho I 
rock ; into one of which Herbert had descended a ruined spiral .■ 
stair. The castle itself, which had stood on the top. had 
mouldered away, leaving only a rugged and broken surface. 

“ By this time they were near the opposite shore, and Her- 
bert looked up with dread at the great cliffs that rose perpen- 
dicularly out of the water, which heaved slowly and heavily, 
with an appearance of immense depth, against them. Their 
black jagged sides had huge holes, into which the sea rushed, 

— far into tho dark, — with a muffled roar; and large protu- | 
berances of rock, bare and threatening. Numberless shadows 
lay on their faces ; and here and there from their tops trickled 


ADELA CATIICART. 


327 


little streams, plashing into the waves at their feet. Pass- 
ing through a natural arch in a rock, lofty and narrow, called 
the Devifs Bridge, and turning a little promontory, they were 
soon aground on the beach. 

“ When the captain had finished hi3 business, they had some 
dinner at the inn ; and while the two men drank their grog, 
Herbert was a delighted listener to many a sea story, old and 
new. How the boy longed to be a sailor, and live always on 
the great waters ! The blocks and cordage of the fast-rooted 
flagstaff before the inn assumed an almost magic interest to 
him, as the two sailors went on with their tales of winds and 
rocks, and narrow escapes and shipwrecks. And how proud 
he was of the friendship of these old seafarers ! 

“ At length it was time to return home. As they rowed 
slowly along, the sun was going down in the west, and their 
shadows were flung far on the waves which gleamed and glis- 
tened in the rich, calm light. Land and sea were bathed in 
the blessing of heaven ; its glory was on the rocks, and on the 
shore, and in the depth of the heaving sea. Under the boat, 
wherever it went, shone a paler green. The only sounds were 
of the oars in the rowlocks, of the drip from their blades as 
they rose and made curves in the air, and the low plash with 
which they dipped again into the sea ; while the water in the 
wake of the boat hastened to compose itself again to that sleep 
from which it had been unwillingly aroused by the passing keel. 
The boy’s heart was full. Often in after years he longed for 
the wings of a dove, that he might fly to that boat (still floating 
in the calm sea of his memory), and there lie until his spirit 
had had rest enough. 

“ The next time that Herbert approached the little girl, she 
waited his coming ; and while they talked Mrs. Netherby 
joined them with her Effie. Presently the gaze of the sea- 
child was fixed upon little Effie, to the all but total neglect of 
the others. The result of this contemplation was visible the 
next day. Mrs. Netherby having invited her to come and see 
them, the following morning, as they were seated at breakfast, 
the door of the room opened, without any prefatory tap, and in 
peeped with wild confidence the smiling face of the untamed 
Undine. It was at once evident that civilization had laid a 
finger upon her, and that a new, womanly impulse had been 


328 


ADELA CATHCART. 


awakened. For there she stood, gazing at Effie, and with both 
hands smoothing down her own hair, which she had managed, 
after a fashion, to part in the middle, and had plentifully 
wetted with sea-water. In her run up the height it had begun 
to dry, and little spangles of salt were visible all over it. She ' 
could not alter her dress, whose many slashes showed little 
lining except her skin ; but she had done all she could to 
approximate her appearance to that of Effie, whom she seemed f 
to regard as a little divinity. 

Mrs. Netherby’s heart was drawn towards the motherless j 
child, and she clothed her from head to foot ; though how far ; 
this was a benefit, as regarded cold and heat, is a question, j 
Herbert began to teach her to read ; in which her progress was ■; 
just like her bodily movements over the earth’s surface, — now 
a dead pause, and now the flight of a bird. Now and then she 
would suddenly start up, heedless where her book might happen 
to fall, and rush out along the heights ; returning next day, or 
-tame afternoon, and, without any apology, resuming her 
studies. 

“ This holiday was to Herbert one of those seasons which : 
tinge the whole of the future life. It was a storehouse of j 
sights and sounds and images of thought; a tiring-room, 
wherein to clothe the ideas that came forth to act their parts I 
upon the stage of reason. Often at night, just ere the sleep 
that wipes out the day from the overfilled and blotted tab- 
lets of the brain, enwrapped him in its cool, grave-like gar- 
ments, a vision of the darkened sea, spotted and spangled with 
pools of unutterable light, would rise before him unbidden, in 
that infinite space for creation which lies dark and waiting under 
the closed eyelids. The darkened sea might be but the out- 
thrown image of his own overshadowed soul ; and the spots of 
light the visual form of his hopes. So clearly would these 
be present to him sometimes, that when he opened his eyes and 
gazed into the darkness of his room he would see the bright 
spaces shining before him still. Then he would fall asleep and 
dream on about the sea, — watching a little cutter perhaps, as 
‘she leaned to the lee, and girdled the wave/ flinging the 
frolicsome waters from her bows, and parting a path for herself 
between. Or he would be seated with the helm in his hand, 
and all the force and the joy wherewith she dashed headlong 


ADELA CATHCART. 


329 


on the rising waves, and half pierced them and half drove them 
under her triumphant keel, would be issuing from his will and 
his triumph. 

“ Surely even for the sad, despairing waves there is some 
hope, out in that boundless room which borders on the sky, 
and upon which, even in the gloomiest hour of tempest, falls 
sometimes from heaven a glory intense. 

11 So when the time came that the lover of waters must 
return, he went back enriched with new visions of them in 
their great home and motherland. He had seen them still and 
silent as a soul in holy trance ; he had seen them raving in a 
fury of livid green, swarming with ‘ white-mouthed waves ; 1 
he had seen them lying in one narrow ridge of unbroken blue, 
where the eye, finding no marks to measure the distance withal, 
saw miles as furlongs ; and he had seen sweeps and shadows 
innumerable stretched along its calm expanse, so dividing it 
into regions, and graduating the distance, that the eye seemed 
to wander on and on from sea to sea. and the ships to flc*' .*t 
oceans beyond oceans of infinite reach. 0 lonely space ! awful 
indeed wert thou, did no one love us ! But he had yet to receive 
one more vision of the waters, and that was to be in a dream. 
With this dream I will close the story of his holiday ; for it went 
with him ever after, breaking forth from the dream-home, and 
encompassing his waking thoughts with an atmosphere of cour- 
age and hope, when his heart was ready to sink in a world 
which was not the world the boy had thought to enter, when he 
ran to welcome his fate. 

*• On their last Sunday, Herbert went with his mother to 
the evening service in a little chapel in the midst of the fisher- 
men’s cottages. It was a curious little place, with galleries 
round, that nearly met in the middle, and a high pulpit, with a 
great sounding-board over it, from which came the voice of an 
earnest little Methodist, magnified by his position into a 
mighty prophet. The good man was preaching on the parable 
of the sheep and the goats ; and, in his earnestness for his own 
theology and the souls of his hearers, was not content that the 
Lord should say these things in his own way, but he must say 
them in his too. And a terrible utterance it was ! Looking 
about, unconsciously seeking some relief from the accumulation 
of horrors with which the preacher was threatening the goats 


330 


ADELA CATHCART. 


of his congregation, Herbert spied, in the very front of one of 
the side galleries, his little pupil, white with terror, and staring 
with round, unwinking eyes full in the face of the prophet of 
fear. Never after could he read the parable without seeing 
the blanched face of the child, and feeling a renewal of that 
evening’s sadness over the fate of the poor goats, which after- 
wards grew into the question, £ Doth God care for oxen, and 
not for goats? ’ He never saw the child again; for they left 
the next day, and she did not come to bid them good-by. 

“As he went home from the chapel, her face of terror 
haunted him. 

“ That night he fell asleep, as usual, with the sound of the 
waves in his soul. And as he slept he dreamed. He stood, 
as he thought, upon the cliff, within which lay the remnants 
of the old castle. The sun was slowly sinking down the west- 
ern sky, and a great glory lay upon the sea. Close to the 
shore beneath, by the side of some low rocks, floated a little 
boat. He thought how delightful it would be to lie in the 
boat in the sunlight, and let it die away upon his bosom. He 
scrambled down the rocks, stepped on board, and laid himself 
in the boat, with his face turned towards the sinking sun. Lower 
and lower the sun sank, seeming to draw the heavens after him, 
like a net. At length he plunged beneath the waves ; but as 
his last rays disappeared on the horizon, lo ! a new splendor 
burst upon the astonished boy. The whole waters were illu- 
minated from beneath with the permeating glories of the 
buried radiance. In rainbow circles, and intermingling, fluc- 
tuating sweeps of colors, the sea lay like an intense opal, molt- 
en with the fire of its own hues. The sky gave back the efful- 
gence with a less deep but more heavenly loveliness. 

“ But betwixt the sea and the sky, just over the grave of 
the down-gone sun, a dark spot appeared, parting the earth 
and the heaven where they had mingled in embraces of light. 
And the dark spot grew and spread, and a cold breath came 
softly over the face of the shining waters ; and the colors 
paled away ; and as the blossom-sea withered and grew gray 
below, the clouds withered and darkened above. The sea 
began to swell and moan and look up, like the soul of a man 
whose joy is going down in darkness ; and a horror came over 
the heart of the sleeper, and in his dream he lifted up hia 


ADELA CATHCART. 


831 


head, meaning to rise and hasten to his home. But, behold, 
the shore was far away, and the great castle-cliff had sunk to a 
low ridge ! With a cry, he sank back on the bosom of the 
careless sea. 

“ The boat began to rise and fall on the waking waves. 
Then a great blast of wind laid hold of it, and whirled it 
about. Once more he looked up, and saw that the tops of the 
waves were torn away,' and that ‘ the white water was coming 
out of the black.’ Higher and higher rose the billows ; louder 
and louder roared the wind across their jagged furrows, tearing 
awful descants from their bursting chords, and tossing the 
little boat like a leaf in the lone desert of storms ; now 
holding it perched on the very crest of a wave, in the mad eye 
of the tempest, while the chaotic waters danced, raving about, 
in hopeless confusion ; now letting it sink in the hollow of the 
waves, and lifting above it cold, glittering walls of water, that 
becalmed it as in a sheltered vale, while the hurricane, roaring 
above, flung arches of w T rithing waters across from billow to 
billow overhead, and threatened to close, as in a transparent 
tomb, boat and boy. At length, when the boat rose once 
more, unwilling, to the awful ridge, jagged and white, a yet 
fiercer blast tore it from the top of the wave. The dreamer 
found himself choking in the waters, and soon lost all con- 
sciousness of the buffeting waves or the shrieking winds. 

• “ When the dreamer again awoke, he felt that he was 
carried along through the storm above the waves ; for they 
reached him only in bursts of spray, though the wind raged 
around him more fiercely than ever. lie opened his eyes 
and looked downwards. Beneath him seethed and boiled the 
tumultuous billows, their wreathy tops torn from them, and 
shot, in long vanishing sheets of spray, over the distracted 
wilderness Such was the turmoil beneath that he had to 
close his eyes again to feel that he was moving onwards. 

“ The next time he opened them, it was to look up. And 
lo ! a shadowy face bent over him, whence love unutterable 
was falling in floods, from eyes deep, and dark, and still, as 
the heavens that are above the clouds. Great waves of hair 
Btreamed back from a noble head, and floated on the tides of 
the tempest. The face was like his mother’s and like his 
father’s, and like a face that he had seen somewhere in a 


832 


ADELA CATHCART. 


picture, but far more beautiful and strong and loving than all. j 
With a sudden glory of gladness, in which the spouting 
pinnacles of the fathomless pyramids of wandering waters' 
dwindled into the confusion of a few troubled water-drops, he 
knew, he knew that the Lord was carrying his lamb in his 
bosom. Around him were the everlasting arms, and above 
him the lamps that light heaven and earth, the eyes that watch 
and are not weary. And now he felt the arms in which he 
lay, and he nestled close to that true, wise bosom, which has 
room in it for all, and where none will strive. 

“ Over the waters went the Master, now crossing the calm 
hollows, now climbing the rising wave, now shrouded in the 
upper ocean of drifting spray, that wrapped him around with 
whirling force, and anon calmly descending the gliding slope 
into the grassy trough below. Sometimes, when he looked 
up, the dreamer could see nothing but the clouds driving 
across the heavens, whence now and then a star, in a little 
well of blue, looked down upon him ; but anon he knew that 
the driving clouds were his drifting hair, and that the stars in 
the blue wells of heaven were his love-lighted eyes. Over the 
sea he strode, and the floods lifted up their heads in vain. I 
The billows would gather and burst around and over them ; j 
but a moment more, and the billows were beneath his feet, and 
on they were going, safe and sure. 

“ Long time the journey endured ; and the dream faded and 
again revived. It was as if he had slept, and again awaked j j 
for he lay in soft grass on a mountain-side, and the form of a 
mighty man lay outstretched beside him, who was weary with i 
a great weariness. Below, the sea howled and beat against 
the base of the mountain ; but it was far below. Again the 
Lord arose, and lifted him up, and bore him onwards. Up 
to the mountain-top they went, through the keen, cold air, and 
over the fields of snow and ice. On the peak the Master 
paused and looked down. 

“In a vast amphitheatre below was gathered a multitude 
that no man could number. They crowded on all sides beyond 
the reach of the sight, rising up the slopes of the surrounding 
mountains till they could no longer be distinguished ; grouped 
and massed upon height above height; filling the hollows, and 
plains, and platforms all about. But every eye looked towards 


ADELA CATHCART. 


333 


the lowest centre of the mountain-amphitheatre, where a little 
vacant spot awaited the presence of some form, which should 
be the heart of all the throng. Down towards this centre the 
Lord bore him. Entering the holy circle, he set him gently 
down, and then looked all around, as if searching earnestly for 
some one he could not see. 

f “ And not finding whom he sought, he walked across the 
open space. A path was instantly divided for him through the 
dense multitude surrounding it. Along this lane of men and 
women and children, he went ; and Herbert ran, following 
close at his feet ; for now all the universe seemed empty save 
where he was. And he was not rebuked, but suffered to follow. 
And although the Lord walked fast and far, the feet following 
him were not weary, but grew in speed and in power. Through 
the great crowd and beyond it, never looking back, up and 
over the brow of the mountain they went, and, leaving behind 
them the gathered universe of men, descended into a pale 
night. Hither and thither went the Master, searching up and 
down the gloomy valley ; now looking behind a great rock, 
and now through a thicket of brushwood ; now entering a dark 
cave, and now ascending a height and gazing all around ; till 
at last, on a bare plain, seated on a gray stone, with her hands 
in her lap, they found the little orphan child who had called 
the sea her mother. 

“ As he drew near to her, the Lord called out, 1 My poor 
little lamb, I have found you at last ! ’ But she did not seem 
to hear or understand what he said ; for she fell on her knees, 
and held up her clasped hands, and cried, ‘ Do not be angry 
with me. I am a goat ; and I ran away because I was afraid. 
Do not burn me.’ But all the answer the Lord made was to 
stoop , and lift her, and hold her to his breast. And she was 
an orphan no more. 

“ So he turned and went back over hill and over dale, and 
Herbert followed, rejoicing that the lost lamb was found. 

' “As he followed, he spied in a crevice of a rock, close by 
his path, a lovely primrose. He stooped to pluck it. And ere 
he began to follow, a cock crew shrill and loud ; and he knew 
that it was the cock that rebuked Peter , and he trembled and 
Btood up. The Master had vanished. He, too, fell a-weeping 
bitterly. And again the cock crew ; and he opened his eyes ; 


334 


ADELA CATIICART. 


and knew that he had dreamed. His mother stood by hia 
bedside, comforting the weeper with kisses. And he cried to 
her: — 

“ 1 0 mother ! surely he would not come over the sea to find 
me in the storm, and then leave me because I stopped to pluck 
a flower ! 5 ” 

“ Too long, I am afraid,” said the curate, the moment he 
had finished his paper, looking at his watch. 

“We have not thought so, I am sure,” said Adela, courts 
ously. 

The ladies rose to go. 

“ Who is to read next ? ” said the school-master. 

“ Why, of course,” said the curate, indignantly, “it ought 
to be my brother ; but there is no depending on him.” 

“ If this frost lasts, I will positively read next time,” said 
the doctor. “ But, you know, Ralph, it will be better for you 
to bring something else with you, lest I should fail again.” 

“ Cool ! ” said the curate. “ I think it is time we dropped 
it.” 

“No, please don’t,” said Harry, with a little anxiety in his 
tone. “ I really want to read my story.” 

“ It looks like it, doesn’t it? ” 

“Now, Ralph, a clergyman should never be sarcastic. Be 
as indignant as you please, — but — sarcastic — never. It 
is very easy for you, who, know just what you have to do, and 
have besides whole volumes in that rickety old desk of yours, 
to keep such an appointment as this. Mine is produced for 
the occasion, bond fide ; and I cannot tell what may be re« 
quired of me from one hour to another.” 

He went up to Adela. 

“I am very sorry to have failed again,” he said 

“ But you won’t next time, will you ? ” 

“ I will not, if I can help it.’ 


ADELA CATHCART. 


335 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

INTERRUPTION. 

But it was Adela herself who failed next time. I had seen 
her during the reading draw her shawl about her as if she 
were cold. She seemed quite well when the friends left, hut 
she had caught a chill ; and before the morning she was quite 
feverish, and unable to leave her bed. 

“ You see, colonel,” said Mrs. Cathcart at breakfast, “that 
this doctor of yours is doing the child harm instead of good. 
He has been suppressing instead of curing the complaint ; and 
now she is worse than ever.” 

“ When the devil — ” I began to remark in reply. 

“Mr. Smith ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Cathcart. 

“ Allow me, madam, to finish my sentence before you make 
up your mind to be shocked. — When the devil goes out of a 
! man, or a woman either, he gives a terrible wrench by the way 
of farewell. Now, as the prophet Job teaches us, all disease 
is from the devil ; and — ” 

“ The prophet Job ! — Mr. Smith ? ” 

“ Well, the old Arab scheik, if you like that epithet better.” 

“ Really, Mr. Smith ! ” 

“Well, I don’t mind what you call him. I only mean to 
say that a disease sometimes goes out with a kind of flare, like 
a candle, — or like the poor life itself. I believe, if this is an 
intermittent fever, — as, from your description, I expect it will 
prove to be, — it will be the best thing for her.” 

“ Well, we shall see what Dr. Wade will say.” 

“ Dr. Wade ? ” I exclaimed. 

“ Of course my brother will not think of trusting such a 
serious case to an inexperienced young man like Mr. Arm- 
strong.” 

“ It seems to me,” I replied, “ that for some time the case 
has ceased to be a serious one. You must allow that Adela is 
better.” 

“ Seemed to be better, Mr. Smith But it was all excite- 
ment, and here is the consequence. I, as far as I have any 


836 


ADF.LA CATHCART. 


influence, decidedly object to Mr. Armstrong having anything 
more to do with the case.” 

“ Perhaps you are right, Jane,” said the colonel. “ 1 fear 
you are. But how can T ask Dr. Wade to resume his attend- 
ance ? ” 

Always nervous about Adela, his sister-in-law had at length 
succeeded in frightening him. 

“ Leave that to me,” she said ; “ 1 will manage him.” 

“ Pooh ! ” said I, rudely. “ He will jump at it. It will 
be a grand triumph for him. I only want you to mind what 
you are about. You know Adela does not like Dr. Wade.” 

“ And she does like Doctor Armstrong?” said Mrs. Cath- 
cart, stuffing each word with significance. 

“Yes,” I answered, boldly. “Who would not prefer the 
one to the other? ” 

But her arrow had struck. The colonel rose, and saying 
only, “ Well, Jane, I leave the affair in your hands,” walked 
out of the room. I was coward enough to follow him. Had 
it been of any use, coward as I was, I would have remained. 

But Mrs. Cathcart, if she had not reckoned without her 
host, had, at least, reckoned without her hostess. She wrote 
instantly to Dr. Wade, in terms of which it is enough to say 
that they were successful, for they brought the doctor at once. 
I saw him pass through the hall, looking awfully stiff, impor- 
tant, and condescending. Beeves, who had opened the door to 
him, gave me a very queer look as he showed him into the 
drawing-room, ringing, at the same time, for Adela’s maid. * 

Now Mrs. Cathcart had not expected that the doctor would 
arrive so soon, and had, as yet, been unable to make up her 
mind how to communicate to the patient the news of the change 
in the physical ministry. So, when the maid brought the mes- 
sage, all that her cunning could provide her with at the mo- 
ment was the pretence that he had called so opportunely by 
chance. 

“ Ask him to walk up,” she said, after just one moment’s 
hesitation. 

“ Adela heard the direction her aunt gave, through the cold 
shiver which was then obliterating rather than engrossing her 
attention, and concluded that they had sent for Mr. Armstrong. 
But Mrs. Cathcart, turning towards her, said : — 


ADELA CATHCART. 


337 


“Adela, my love, Dr. Wade has just called; and I have 
ashed him to step upstairs.” 

The patient started up. 

“Aunt, what do you mean? If that old wife comes into 
this room, I will make him glad to go out of it ! ” 

You see she was feverish, poor child, else I am sure she 
could not have been so rude to her aunt. But before Mrs. 
Cathcart could reply, in came Dr. Wade. He walked right 
up to the bed, after a stately obeisance to the lady attendant. 

“I am sorry to find you so ill. Miss Cathcart.” 

“Iam perfectly well, Dr. Wade. I am sorry you have had 
the trouble of walking upstairs.” 

As she said this, she rang the bell at the head of her bed. 
Her maid, who had been listening at the door, entered at once. 
I had all this from Adela herself afterwards. 

“Emma, bring me my desk. Dr. Wade, there must be 
some mistake. It was my aunt, Mrs. Cathcart, who sent for 
you. Had she given me the opportunity, I would have 
begged that the interview might take place in her room instead 
of mine.” 

Dr. Wade retreated towards the fireplace, where Mrs. Cath- 
cart stood, quite aware that she had got herself into a mess of 
no ordinary complication. Yet she persisted in her cunning. 
She lifted her finger to her forehead. 

“ Ah ? ” said Dr. Wade. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Cathcart. 

“ Wandering?” 

“ Dreadfully.” 

After some more whispering, the doctor sat down to write 
a prescription. But, meantime, Adela was busy writing another. 
What she wrote was precisely to this effect : — 

“Dear Mr. Armstrong: — I have caught a bad cold, 
and my aunt has let loose Dr. Wade upon me. Please come 
directly, if you will save me from ever so much nasty medi- 
cine, at the least. My aunt is not my mother, thank Heaven 1 
though she would gladly usurp that relationship. 

“ Yours most truly, 


“Adela Cathcart.” 


838 


ADELA CATHCART. 


She folded and sealed the note, — sealed it carefully, — and 
gave it to Emma, who vanished with it, followed instantly by 
Mrs. Cathcart. As to what took place outside the door — • 
shall I confess it ? — Beeves is my informant. 

“ Where are you going, Emma? Emma, come here direct- 
ly,” said Mrs. Cathcart. 

Emma obeyed. 

“Iam going a message for mis’ ess.” 

“ Who is that note for ? ” 

“I didn’t ask. John can read well enough.” 

“ Show it me.” 

Emma, I presume, closed both lips and hand very tight. 

“ I command you.” 

“Miss Cathcart pays me my wages, ma’am,” said Emma_ 
and, turning, sped downstairs like a carrier-pigeon. 

In the hall she met Beeves, and told him the story. 

“ There she comes ! ” cried he. “ Give me the letter. I’ll i 
take it myself.” 

“ You're not going without your hat, surely, Mr. Beeves,” 
said Emma. 

“ Bless me ! It’s downstairs. There’s master’s old one ! 
He’ll never want it again. And if he does, it'll be none the 
worse.” 

And he was out of the door in a moment. Beeves’ alarm, i 
however, as to Mrs. Cathcart’s approach, was a false one. She 
returned into the sick-chamber, with a face fiery red, and 
found Dr. Wade just finishing an elaborate prescription. 

“There! ” said he. rising. “Send for that at once, and 
let it be taken directly. Good-morning.” 

He left the room instantly, making signs that he was afraid i 
of exciting his patient, as she did not appear to approve of his 
presence. 

“ What is the prescription? ” said Adela, quite quietly, as 
Mrs. Cathcart approached the bed, apparently trying to deci- 1 
pher it. 

“I am glad to see you so much calmer, my dear. You 
must not excite yourself. The prescription ? I cannot make 
it out. Doctors do write so badly. I suppose they consider 
it professional.” 


ADELA CA T HCART. 


339 


II They consider a good many tilings professional which are 
only stupid. Let me see it.” 

Mrs. Cathcart, thrown off her guard, gave it to her. Adela 
tore it in fragments, and threw it in a little storm on the floor. 

“ Adela ! ” screamed Mrs. Cathcart. “ What is to be 
done ? ” 

“ Pay Dr. Wade his fee, and tell him I shall never be too 
ill to refuse his medicines. Now, aunt ! You find I am de- 
termined. I declare you make me behave so ill that I am 
ashamed of myself.” 

Here the poor impertinent child crept under the clothes, and 
fell a- weeping bitterly. Mrs. Cathcart had sense enough to 
see that nothing could be done, and retired to her room. Get- 
ting weary of her own society after a few moments of solitude, 
she proceeded to go downstairs. But half-way down she was 
met full in the face by Henry Armstrong ascending two steps 
at a time. He had already met Dr. Wade, as he came out of 
the dining-room, where he had been having an interview with 
the colonel. Harry had turned, and held out his hand with 
a “ How do you do, Dr. Wade?” But that gentleman had 
bowed with the utmost stiffness, and kept his hand at home. 

“ So it is to be open war and mutual slander, is it, Dr. 
Wade?” said Harry. “In that case, I want to knowhow 
you come to interfere with my patient. I have had no dis- 
missal, which punctilio I took care to know was observed in 
your case.” 

“ Sir, I was sent for,” said Dr. Wade, haughtily. 

II I have in my pocket a note from the lady of this house, 
requesting my immediate attendance. If you have received 
a request to the same purport from a visitor, you obey it at 
your own risk. Good-morning.” 

Then Harry walked quietly up the first half of the stair, 
while Beeves hastened to open the door to the crestfallen Dr. 
Wade ; but by the time he met Mrs. Cathcart his rate of as- 
cent had considerably increased. As soon as she saw him, 
however, without paying any attention to the usual formality 
of a greeting, she turned and re-entered her niece’s room. Her 
eyes were flashing, and her face spotted red and white with 
helpless rage. But she would not abandon the field. Harry 


840 


ADELA CATHCART. 


bowed to her, and passed on to the bed, where he was greeted 
with a smile. 

“There’s not much the matter, I hope?” he said, return- 
ing the smile. 

“ It may suit you to make light of my niece’s illness, Mr. 
Armstrong ; but I beg to inform you that her father thought 
it serious enough to send for Dr. Wade. He has been here 
already, and your attendance is quite superfluous.” 

“No doubt; no doubt. But, as I am here, I may as well 
prescribe.” 

“ Dr. Wade has already prescribed.” 

“And I have taken his prescription, have I not, aunt? — 
and destroyed it, Mr. Armstrong, instead of my own chance.” : 

“ Of what? ” said Mrs. Cathcart, with vulgar significance. 

“ Of getting rid of two officious old women at once,” said 
Adela, — in a rage, I fear I must confess, as the only excuse 
for impertinence. 

“Come, come,” said Harry, “this won’t do. I cannot 
have my patient excited in this way. Miss Cathcart, may I 
ring for your maid ? ” 

For answer, Adela rang the bell herself. Her aunt was 
pretending to look out of the window. 

“Will you go and ask your master,” said Harry, when 
Emma made her appearance, “to be so kind as to come here 
for a moment ? ” 

The poor colonel — an excellent soldier, a severe master, 
with the highest notions of authority and obedience — found 
himself degraded by his own conduct, as other autocrats have 
proved before, into a temporizing incapable. It was the more 
humiliating that he was quite aware in his own honest heart 
that it was jealousy of Harry that had brought him into this 
painful position. But he obeyed the summons at once; for 
wherever there was anything unpleasant to be done, there, with 
him, duty assumed the sterner command. As soon as he en- 
tered the room, Harry, without giving time for any one else 
to determine the course of the conference, said : — 

“ There has been some mistake, Colonel Cathcart, between 
Dr. Wade and myself, which has already done Miss Cathcart 
no good. As I find her very feverish, though not by any 


ADELA CATIICART. 


841 


means alarmingly ill, I must, as her medical attendant, insist 
that no one come into her room but yourself or her maid.” 

Every one present perfectly understood this ; and however, 
in other circumstances, the colonel might have resented the 
tone of authority with which Harry spoke, he was compelled, 
for his daughter’s sake, to yield ; and he afterwards justified 
Harry entirely. Mrs. Cathcart walked out of the room with 
her neck invisible from behind. The colonel sat down by the 
fire. Harry wrote his prescription on the half sheet from 
which Dr. Wade had torn his; and then saying that he would 
call in the evening, took his leave of the colonel, and bowed 
to his patient, receiving a glance of acknowledgment which could 
not fail to generate the feeling that there was a secret under- 
standing between them, and that he had done just what she 
wanted. He mounted his roan horse, called Rhubarb, with a 
certain elation of being, which he tried to hide from every one 
but himself. 

When doctors forget that their patients are more like musi- 
cal instruments than machines, they will soon need to be re- 
minded that they are men and women, and not dogs or horses. 
Yet, alas for the poor dogs and horses that fall into the hands 
of a man without a human sympathy even with them ! I, John 
Smith bless you, my doctor-friends, that ye are not doctors 
merely, but good and loving men ; and, in virtue thereof, so 
much the more — so exceedingly the more — Tlierapeutce . 

I need not follow the course of the fever. Each day the 
arrival of the cold fit was longer delayed, and the violence of 
both diminished, until they disappeared altogether. But a day 
or two before this happy result was completed, Adela had been 
allowed to go down to the drawing-room, and had delighted her 
father with her cheerfulness and hopefulness. It really seemed 
as if the ague had carried off the last remnants of the illness 
under which she had been so long laboring. But then, you can 
never put anything to the experimentum crucis ; and there 
were other causes at work for Adela’ s cure, which were per- 
haps more powerful than even the ague. However this may 
have been, she got almost quite well in a very short space of 
time ; and, with her father’s consent, issued invitations to another 
meeting of the story-club. They were at once satisfactorily 
responded to. 


842 


ADELA CATS CART. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

PERCY. 

By this time Percy had returned to London. His mothe? 
remained ; but the terms understood between her niece and 
herself were those of icy politeness and reserve. I learned 
afterwards that something of an understanding had also been 
arrived at between Percy and Harry ; ever since learning the 
particulars of which, I have liked the young rascal a great deal 
better. So I will trouble my reader to take an interest in my 
report of the affair. 

Percy met Harry at the gate, after one of his professional 
visits, and accosted him thus : — 

“ Mr. Armstrong, my mother says you have been rude to 
her.” 

“I am not in the least aware of it, Mr. Percy.” 

“ Oh ! I don’t care much. She is provoking. Besides, she 
can take care of herself. That’s not it.” 

l£ What is it, then ? ” 

“ What do you mean about Adela? ” 

££ I have said nothing more than that she has had a sharp 
attack of intermittent fever, which is going off.” 

££ Come, come, — you know what I mean.” 

££ I may suspect, but I don’t choose to answer hints, the 
meaning of which I only suspect. 1 might make a fool of 
myself.” 

££ Well, I'll be plain. Are you in love with her? ” 

££ Suppose I were, you are not the first to whom I should 
think it necessary to confess.” 

“ Well, are you paying your addresses to her? ” 

11 1 am sorry I cannot consent to make my answers as frank 
as your questions. You have the advantage of me in straight- 
forwardness, I confess. Only you have got sun and wind of 
me both.” 

££ Come, come, — I hate dodging.” 

££ I dare say you do. But just let me shift round a bit, 
and see what you will do then. Are you in love with Miss 
Cathcart ? ” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


343 


“ Yes.” 

u Upon my word, I shouldn’t have thought it. Here have 
we been all positively conspiring to do her good, and you have 
been paying ten times the attention to the dogs and horses that 
you have paid to her.” 

“ By Jove ! .it’s quite true. But I couldn’t somehow.” 

“ Then she hasn’t encouraged you? ” 

“ By Jupiter! you are frank enough now. No, damn it, 
— not a bit. But she used to like me, and she would again, 
if you would let her alone.” 

“Now, Mr. Percy, I’ll tell you what. I don’t believe 
you are a bit in love with her.” 

“ She’s devilish pretty.” 

“Well? ” 

“ And I declare I think she got prettier and prettier every 
day till this cursed ague took her. Your fault, too, my mother 
says.” 

“ We’ll leave your mother out of the question now, if you 
please. Do you know what made her look prettier and pret- 
tier, — for you are quite right about that? ” 

“No. I suppose you were giving her arsenic.” 

“ No. I was giving her the true elixir vitce , unknown even 
to the Rosicrucians.” 

Percy stared. 

“I will explain myself. Her friend, Mr. Smith — ” 

“ Old fogie ! ” 

“Old bachelor, — yes. Mr. Smith and I agreed that she 
was dying of ennui ; and so we got up this story-club, and got ( 
my brother and the rest to bear a hand in it. It did her all 
the good the most sanguine of us could have hoped for.” 

“ I thought it horrid slow.” 

“lain surprised at that, for you were generally asleep.” 

“I was forced, in self-defence. I couldn’t smoke,” 

“ It gave her something to think about.” 

“So it seems.” 

“Now, Mr. Percy, how could you think you had the 
smallest chance with her, when here was first 0Iie then 

another turning each the flash o,f liis own mental prism upon 
her weary eyes, and healing them with light ; while you would 
not take the smallest trouble to gratify her, or even to show 


344 


ADELA CATHCART. 


yourself to anything like advantage? My dear fellow, what 
a fool you are ! ” 

“ Mr. Armstrong ! ” 

“ Come, come, — you began with frankness, and I’ve onlj 
gone on witli it. You are a good-hearted fellow, and ought to 
be made something of.” 

“ At all events, you make something of yourself, to talk of 
your own productions as the elixir vitce .” 

“You forget that I am in disgrace as well as yourself on 
that score ; for I have not read a word of my own since the 
club began.” 

“ Then how the devil should I be worse off than you? ” 

“ I didn’t say you were. I only said you did your best to 
place yourself at a disadvantage. I at least took a part in 
the affair, although a very humble one. But depend upon it, 
a girl like Miss Cathcart thinks more of mental gifts than of 
any outward advantages which a man may possess ; and in the 
company of those who think , a fellow’s good looks don’t go for 
much. She could not help measuring you by those other 
men — and women too. But you may console yourself with 
the reflection that there are plenty of girls, and pretty ones 
too, of a very different way of judging; and for my part you 
are welcome to the pick of them.” 

“ You mean to say that I shan’t have Addie ? ” 

“ Not in the least, But, come now — do you think your- 
self worthy of a girl like that? ” 

“ No. Do you? ” 

“ No. But I should not feel such a hypocrite, if she thought 
me worthy, as to give her up on that ground.” 

“ Then what do you mean? ” 

“ To win her, if lean.” 

“ Whew ! ” 

“But, if you are a gentleman, you will let me say so 
myself, and not betray my secret.” 

“ Damned if I do ! Good luck to you ! There’s my hand. 

I believe you are a good fellow after all. I wish I had seen 
you ride to hounds. They tell me it’s a sight.” 

“ Thank you heartily. But what are you going to do? ’ 

“ Go back to the s^eet-flowing Thames, and the dreams of 
the desk.’* 


ADELA CATHCART. 


345 


u Well — be a man as well as a gentleman. Don’t be a 
fool.” 

“ Hang it all ! I believe it was her money, after all, I was 
in love with Good-by ! ” 

But the poor fellow looked grave enough as he went away. 
And I trust that, before long, he, too, began to reap some 
of the good corn that grows on the wintry fields of disap- 
pointment. I have my eye upon him ; but it is little an old 
fogie like me can do "with a fellow like Percy. 


CHAPTER XX 

THE CRUEL PAINTER. * 

Now to return to the Story-Club. 

On the night appointed, we met. And, to the delight of 
all the rest of us, Harry arrived with a look that satisfied us 
that he was to be no defaulter this time. The look was one 
of almost nervous uneasiness. Of course this sprung from 
anxiety to please Adela, — at least, so I interpreted it. She 
occupied her old place on the couch ; we all arranged ourselves 
nearly as before ; and the fire was burning very bright. Before 
he began, however, Harry, turning to our host, said : — 

“May I arrange the scene as I please, for the right effect 
of my story? ” 

“ Certainly,” answered the colonel. 

Harry rose, and extinguished the lamp. 

“ But, my dear sir,” said the colonel, “ how can you read 
now?” 

u Perfectly, by the firelight,” answered Harry. 

He then went to the windows, and, drawing aside the 
curtains, drew up the blinds. 

It was full high moon, and the light so clear that, notwith- 
standing the brightness of the fire, each window seemed to lie 
in ghostly shimmer on the floor. Not a breath of wind was 
abroad. The whole country being covered with snow, the air 


846 


ADELA CATIICAliT. 


was filled wiih a snowy light. On one side rose the high roof 
of another part of the house, on which the snow was lying j 
thick and smooth, undisturbed save by the footprints, visible 
in the moon, of a large black cat, which had now paused in 
the middle of it, and was looking round suspiciously towards |i 
the source of the light which had surprised him in his 
midnight walk. 

11 Now,” said Harry, returning to his seat, and putting on 
in air of confidence to conceal the lack of it, u let any one 
who has nerves retire at once, both for his own sake and that 
}f the company ! This is just such a night as I wanted to 
read my story in, — snow — stillness — moonlight outside, and 
nothing but firelight inside. Mind, Ralph, you keep up the 
fire, for the room will be more ready to get cold now the cov- 
erings are off the windows. You will say at once if you feel 
it cold, Miss Cathcart ? ” 

Adela promised ; and Harry, who had his manuscript 
gummed together in a continuous roll, so that he might not 
have to turn over any leaves, began at once : — 

“THE CRUEL PAINTER. 

u Among the young men assembled at the University of 
Prague, in the year 159—, was one called Karl von 
Walkenlicht. A somewhat careless student, he yet held a fair ! 
position in the estimation of both professors and men, because' 
he could hardly look at a proposition without understanding it. 
Where such proposition, however, had to do with anything 
relating to the deeper insights of the nature, he was quite 
content that, for him, it should remain a proposition ; which, 
however, he laid up in one of his mental cabinets, and was 
ready to reproduce at a moment’s notice. This mental agility 
was more than matched by the corresponding corporeal ex- 
cellence, and both aided in producing results in which his 
remarkable strength was equally apparent. In all games 
depending upon the combination of muscle and skill, he had[(| 
scarce rivalry enough to keep him in practice. His strength, 
however, was embodied in such a softness of muscular outline, 
such a rare Greek-like style of beauty, and associated with 
Buch a gentleness of manner and behavior, that, partly from 


ADELA CATHCART. 


347 


the truth of the resemblance, partly from the absurdity of 
the contrast, he was known throughout the university by the 
diminutive of the feminine form of his name, and was always 
I called Lottchen. 

i “ ‘ I say, Lottchen,’ said one of his fellow-students, called 
Richter, across the table in a wine-cellar they were in the 
habit of frequenting, ‘do you know, Heinrich Hollenrachen 
here says that he saw this morning, with mortal eyes, — whom 
do you think? — Lilith.’ 

11 i Adam s first wife? ’ asked Lottchen, with an attempt at 
I carelessness while his face flushed like a maiden’s. 

“‘None of your chaff!’ said Richter. ‘Your face is 
honester than your tongue, and confesses what you cannot 
deny, that you would give your chance of salvation — a small 
one to be sure, but all you’ve got — for one peep at Lilith. 
Wouldn’t you now, Lottchen?’ 

“‘Go to the devil!’ was all Lottchen’s answer to his 
’ tormentor ; but he turned to Heinrich, to whom the students 
had given the surname above mentioned, because of the 
enormous width of his jaws, and said with eagerness and 
envy, disguising them, as well as he could, under the appear- 
; ance of curiosity : — 

“ ‘ You don’t mean it, Heinrich? You’ve been taking the 
; beggar in ! Confess now.’ 

“ ‘ Not I. I saw her with my two eyes.’ 

“ ‘ Notwithstanding the different planes of their orbits,’ 
suggested Richter. 

“ ‘ Yes, notwithstanding the fact that I can get a parallax to 
any of the fixed stars in a moment, with only the breadth of 
my nose for the base,’ answered Heinrich, responding at once 
to the fun, and careless of the personal defect insinuated. 

‘ She was near enough for even me to see her perfectly.’ 

“‘When? Where? How?’ asked Lottchen. 

“ ‘ Two hours ago. In the church-yard of St. Stephen’s. 
By a lucky chance. Anymore little questions, my child?’ 
answered Hollenrachen. 

“ ‘ What could have taken her there, who is seen nowhere? ’ 
said Richter. 

“ ‘ She was seated on a grave. After she left, I went to the 
place ; but it was a new-made grave. There was no stone up. 


348 


ADELA CATHCART. 


I asked the sexton about her. He said he supposed she was 
the daughter of the woman buried there last Thursday week. 

I knew it was Lilith.’ 

‘“Her mother dead ! ’ said Lottchen, musingly. Then ho 
thought with himself, ‘She will be going there again, 
then ! ’ But he took care that the ghost-thought should wander J 
unembodied. ‘ But how did you know her, Heinrich ? You 
never saw her before.’ 

“ ‘ How do you come to be over head and ears in love with her, ! 
Lottchen, and you haven’t seen her at all ? ’ interposed 
Kichter. 

“ ' Will you, or will you not, go to the devil ? ’ rejoined 
Lottchen, with a comic crescendo ; to which the other re- 
plied with a laugh. 

“ ‘ No one could miss knowing her,’ said Heinrich. 

“ ‘ Is she so very like, then ? ’ 

“It is always herself, her very self.’ 

“ A fresh flask of wine, turning out to be not up to the mark 
brought the current of conversation against itself ; not much to 
the dissatisfaction of Lottchen, who had already resolved to be 
in the church-yard of St. Stephen’s at sundown the following 
day, in the hope that he, too, might be favored with a vision of 
Lilith. 

“ This resolution he carried out. Seated in a porch of the 
church, not knowing in what direction to look for the appari- 
tion he hoped to see, and desirous as well of not seeming to 
be on the watch for one, he was gazing at the fallen rose-leaves 
of the sunset, withering away upon the sky, when, glancing 
aside by an involuntary movement, he saw a woman seated 
upon a new-made grave, not many yards from where he sat, 
with her face buried in her hands, and apparently weeping 
bitterly. Karl was in the shadow of the porch, and could see 
her perfectly, without much danger of being discovered by 
her ; so he sat and watched her. She raised her head for a 
moment, and the rose-flush of the west fell over it, shining on 
the tears with which it was wet, and giving the whole a. bloom ■ 
which did not belong to it, for it w T as always pale, and now pale 
as death. It was indeed the face of Lilith, the most celebrated 
beauty of Prague. 

“ Again she buried her face in her hands ; and Karl sat with a 


ADELA CATHCART. 


349 


strange feeling of helpnessness, which grew as he sat ; and the 
longing to help her whom he could not help drew his heart 
towards her with a trembling reverence which was quite new 
j t0 llim - wept on. The western roses withered slowly 

away, and the clouds blended with the sky, and the stars gath- 
ered like drops of glory sinking through the vault of night, 
and the trees about the church-yard grew black, and Lilith 
almost vanished in the wide darkness. At length she lifted 
I her head, and, seeing the night around her, gave a little broken 
cry of dismay. The minutes had swept over her head, not 
through her mind, and she did not know that the dark had 
i come. 

“ Hearing her cry, Karl rose and approached her. She 
! heard his footsteps, and started to her feet. Karl spoke : — 

“‘Do not be frightened , 1 he said. ‘Let me see you home. 

; I will walk behind you.’ 

“ ‘ Who are you ? ’ she rejoined. 

“ ‘ Karl Wolkenlicht.’ 

U< I have heard of you. Thank you. I can go home 
alone.’ 

“ Yet, as if in a half-dreamy, half-unconscious mood, she 
! accepted his offered hand to lead her through the graves, and 
allowed him to walk beside her, till, reaching the corner of 
a narrow street, she suddenly bade him good-night and van- 
ished. He thought it better not to follow her, so he returned 
I her good-night and went home. 

“ How to see her again was his first thought the next day ; 
as, in fact, how to see her at all had been his first thought for 
many days. She went nowhere that he ever heard of; she 
knew nobody that he knew ; she was never seen at church., or 
at market ; never seen in the street. Her home had a dreary, 
desolate aspect. It looked as if ne one ever went out or in. 
It was like a place on which decay had fallen because there was 
no indwelling spirit. The mud of years was baked upon its 
door, and no faces looked out of its dusty windows. 

“How, then, could she be the most celebrated beauty of 
Prague ? How, then, was it that Heinrich Hollenrachen knew 
her the moment he saw her? Above all, how was it that Karl 
Wolkenlicht had, in fact, fallen in love with her before ever he 
Baw her ? It was thus : — 


850 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ Her father was a painter. Belonging thus to the public, 
it had taken the liberty of re-naming him. Every one called him : 
Teufelsbiirst, or Devilsbrush. It was a name with which, to | 
judge from the nature of his representations, he could hardly fail j 
to be pleased. For, not as a nightmare-dream, which may » 
alternate with the loveliest visions, but as his ordinary every- I 
day work, he delighted to represent human suffering. 

“Not an aspect of human woe or torture, as expressed in 
countenance or limb, came before his willing imagination, but 
he bore it straightway to his easel. In the moments that pre- I 
cede sleep, when the black space before the eyes of the poet i 
teems with lovely faces, or dawns into a spirit-landscape, face | 
after face of suffering, in all varieties of expression, would j. 
crowd, as if compelled, by the accompanying fiends, to present i 
themselves, in awful levee, before the inner eye of the expect- h 
ant master. Then he would rise, light his lamp, and, with i 
rapid hand, make notes of his visions ; recording, with swift, j 
successive sweeps of his pencil, every individual face which |j 
had rejoiced his evil fancy. Then he would return to his 
couch, and, well satisfied, fall asleep, to dream yet further ; 
embodiments of human ill. 

“ What wrong could man or mankind have done him, to be j 
thus fearfully pursued by the vengeance of the artist’s hate ? | 

“ Another characteristic of the faces and forms which he 
drew was, that they were all beautiful in the original idea. 
The lines of each face, however distorted by pain, would have i 
been, in rest, absolutely beautiful ; and the whole of the exe- 
cution bore witness to the fact that upon this original beauty ; 
the painter had directed the artillery of anguish, to bring down [ 
the sky-soaring heights of its divinity to the level of a hated j 
existence. To do this, he worked in perfect accordance with 
artistic law, falsifying no line of the original forms. It was 
the suffering, rather than his pencil, that wrought the change. | 
The latter was the willing instrument to record what the imagi- | 
nation conceived with a cruelty composed enough to be correct. 

“ To enhance the beauty he had thus distorted, and so to ( 
enhance yet further the suffering that produced the distortion, 
he would often represent attendant demons, whom he made as 
ugly as his imagination could compass ; avoiding, however, all 
grotesqueness beyond what was sufficient to indicate that they 


ADELA CATHCART. 


351 


were demons, and not men. Their ugliness rose from hate, 
envj, and all evil passions; amongst which he especially de- 
lighted to represent a gloating exultation over human distress. 
And often in the midst of his clouds of demon frees, would 
some one who knew him recognize the painter’s own likeness, 
such as the mirror might have presented it to him when he was 
busiest over the incarnation of some exquisite torture. 

“ But, apparently with the wish to avoid being supposed to 
chcose such repressntations for their own sakes, he always 
found a story, often in the histories of the church, whose name 
he gave to the painting, and which he pretended to have in- 
spired the pictorial conception. No one, however, who looked 
upon his suffering martyrs, could suppose for a moment that 
he honored their martyrdom. They were but the vehicles for 
his hate of humanity. He was the torturer, and not Diocle- 
tian or Nero. 

“But, stranger yet to tell, there was no picture, whatever 
its subject, into which he did not introduce one form of placid 
and harmonious loveliness. In this, however, his fierceness was 
only more fully displayed. For in no case did this form man- 
ifest any relation either to the actors or the endurers in the pic- 
ture. Hence its very loveliness became almost hateful to those 
who beheld it. Not a shade crossed the still sky of that brow, 
not a ripple disturbed the still sea of that cheek. She did 
not hate, she did not love the sufferers; the painter would not 
have her hate, for that would be to the injury of her loveli- 
ness ; would not have her love, for he hated. Sometimes 
she floated above, as a still, unobservant angel, her gazo 
turned upward, dreaming along, careless as a white sum- 
mer cloud, across the blue. If she looked down on the scene 
below, it was only that the beholder might see that she saw 
and did not care ; that not a feather of her outspread pinions 
would quiver at the sight. Sometimes she would stand in the 
crowd, as if she had been copied there from another picture 
and had nothing to do with this one, nor any right to be in it 
at all. Or when the red blood was trickling drop by drop 
from the crushed limb, she might be seen standing nearest, 
smiling over a primrose or the bloom on a peach. Some had 
said that she was the painter’s wife ; that she had been false 
to him : that he had killed her ; and, finding that that was no 


352 


ADELA CATHCART. 


sufficing revenge, thus, half in love, and half in deepest hate, ( 
immortalized his vengeance. But it was now universally un- 
derstood that it was his daughter, of whose loveliness extrava- 
gant reports went abroad ; though all said, doubtless reading 
this from her father’s pictures, that she was a beauty without 
a heart. Strange theories of something else supplying its 
place were rife among the anatomical students. With the girl 
in the pictures, the wild imagination of Lottchen, probably in 
part from her apparently absolute unattainableness and her un- 
disputed heartlessness, had fallen in love, as far as the mere 
imagination can fall in love. 

“ But again, how was he to see her ? He haunted the house, 
night after night. Those blue eyes never met his. No step 
responsive to his came from that door. It seemed to have been 
so long unopened that it had grown as fixed and hard as the 
stones that held its bolts in their passive clasp. He dared 
not watch in the daytime, and with all his watching at night, j 
he never saw father or daughter or domestic cross the thresh- 
old. Little he thought that, from a shot-window near the 
door, a pair of blue eyes, like Lilith’s, but paler and colder, j 
were watching him, just as a spider watches the fly that is like- 
ly ere long to fall into his toils. And into those toils Karl 
soon fell. For her form darkened the page ; her form stood 
on the threshold of sleep ; and when, overcome with watching, 
he did enter its precincts, her form entered with him, and 
walked by his side. He must find her ; or the world might go 
to the bottomless pit for him. But how ? 

11 Yes. He would be a painter. Teufelsburst would receive 
him as a humble apprentice. He would grind his colors, and 
Teufelsbiirst would teach him the mysteries of the science ; 
which is the handmaiden of art. Then he might see her , and 
that was all his ambition. 

u In the clear morning light of a day in autumn, when the 
leaves were beginning to fall seared from the hand of that 
Death which has his dance in the chapels of nature as well as 
in the cathedral aisles of men, — he walked up and knocked at ( 
the dingy door. The spider painter opened it himself. He 
was a little man, meagre and pallid, with those faded blue eyes, 
a low nose, in three distinct divisions, and thin, curveless, cruel 
lips. He wore no hair on his face ; but long gray locka, long 


ADELA CATHCART. 


353 


as a wonan’s, were scattered over his shoulders, and hung 
down on his breast. When Wolkenlicht had explained bis 
errand, he smiled a smile in which hypocrisy could not hide 
the cunning, and, after many difficulties, consented to receive 
him as a pupil, on condition that he would become an inmate 
of his house. Wolkenlicht’s heart bounded with delight, which 
he tried to hide ; the second smile of Teufelsburst might have 
shown him that he had ill succeeded. The fact that he was 
not a native of Prague, but, coming from a distant part of the 
country, was entirely his own master in the city, rendered this 
condition perfectly easy to fulfil ; and that very afternoon he 
entered the studio of Teufelsburst as his scholar and servant. 

“ It was a great room, filled with the appliances and results 
of art Many pictures, festooned with cobwebs, were hung 
carelessly on the dirty walls. Others, half finished, leaned 
against them, on the floor. Several, in different stages of 
progress, stood upon easels. But all spoke the cruel bent of the 
artist’s genius. In one corner a lay-figure was extended on a 
couch, covered with a pall of black velvet. Through its folds 
the form beneath was easily discernible ; and one hand and 
fore-arm protruded from beneath it, at right angles to the rest 
of the frame. Lottchen could not help shuddering when he 
saw it. Although he overcame the feeling in a moment, he 
felt a great repugnance to seating himself with his back to- 
| wards it, as the arrangement of an easel, at which Teufels- 
! burst wished him to draw, rendered necessary. He contrived 
to edge himself round, so that when he lifted his eyes he 
i should see the figure, and be sure that it could not rise with- 
| out his being aware of it. But his master saw and understood 
his altered position, and, under some pretence about the light, 
j compelled him to resume the position in which he had placed 
him at first ; after which he sat watching, over the top of his 
i picture, the expression of his countenance as he tried to draw ; 
j reading in it the horrid fancy that the figure under the pall 
had risen, and was stealthily approaching to look over his 
, shoulder. But Lottchen resisted the feeling, and, being already 
; no contemptible draughtsman, was soon interested enoagh to 
forget it. And then, any moment, she might enter. 

“ Now began a system of slow torture, for the chance of 
which the painter had been long on the watch, — especially 


ADELA CATHCAR1 


35i 

"I 

since he had first seen Karl lingering about the house. His 
opportunities of seeing physical suffering were nearly enough { 
even for the diseased necessities of his art ; but now he had one 
in his power, on whom, his own will fettering him, he could 
try any experiments he pleased for the production of a kind of 
suffering, in the observation of which he did not consider that 
he had yet had sufficient experience. He would hold the very , 
heart of the youth in his hand, and wring it and torture it to 
his own content. And lest Karl should be strong enough to 1 
prevent those expressions of pain for which he lay on the ;; 
watch, he would make use of further means, known to him- *• 
self, and known to few besides. 

‘‘All that day Karl saw nothing of Lilith; but he heard ; 
her voice once, — and that was enough for one day. The next, j, 
she was sitting to her father the greater part of the day, and 
he could see her as often as he dared glance up from his draw- i 
ing. She had looked at him when she entered, but had shown i 
no sign of recognition; arid all day long she took no further | 
notice of him. He hoped, at first, that this came of the intel- 
ligence of love ; but he soon began to doubt it. For he saw t 
that, with tire holy shadow of sorrow, all that distinguished the 
expression of her countenance from that which the painter so I 
constantly reproduced, had vanished likewise. It was the 
very face of the unheeding angel whom, as often as he lifted i 
his eyes higher than hers, he saw on the wall above her, play- * 
ing on a psaltery in the smoke of the torment ascending for- : 
ever from burning Babylon. The power of the painter had 
not merely wrought for the representation of the woman of his : 
imagination : it had had scope as well in realizing her. 

“Karl soon began to see that communication, other than of 
the eyes, was all but hopeless ; and to any attempt in that way 
she seemed altogether indisposed to respond. Nor, if she had 1 
wished it, would it have been safe ; for as often as he glanced 
towards her, instead of hers, he met the blue eyes of the 
painter, gleaming upon him like winter-lightning. His tones, ,( 
his gestures, his words, seemed kind ; his glance and his smile 
refused to be disguised. 

“ The first day he dined alone in the studio, waited upon by 
an old woman ; the next he was admitted to the family table, 
with Teufelsbiirst and Lilith. The room offered a sti ange con- 


ADELA CATHCART. 


S55 


trast to the study. As far as handicraft, directed by a sump- 
tuous taste, could construct a house-paradise, this was one. 
But it seemed rather a paradise of demons ; for the walls were 
covered with Tuefelshurst’s paintings. During the dinner, 
Lilith's gaze scarcely met that of Wolkenlicht ; and once or 
twice, when their eyes did meet, her glance was so perfectly 
unconcerned, that Karl wished he might look at her forever 
without the fear of her looking at him again. She seemed like 
one whose love had rushed out, glowing with seraphic fire, to 
be frozen to death in a more than wintry cold : she now walked 
lonely without her love. In the evenings, he was expected to 
continue his drawing by lamp-light ; and at night he w T as con- 
ducted by Teufelsbiirst to his chamber. Not once did he allow 
him to proceed thither alone, and not once did he leave him 
there without locking and bolting the door on the outside. But 
he felt nothing except the coldness of Lilith. 

u Day after day she sat to her father, in every variety of 
costume that could best show the variety of her beauty. How 
much greater that beauty might be, if it ever blossomed into 
a beauty of soul, Wolkenlicht never imagined ; for he soon 
loved her enough to attribute to her all the possibilities of her 
face as actual possessions of her being. To account for every- 
thing that seemed to contradict this perfection, his brain was 
prolific in inventions; till he was compelled at last to see that 
she was in the condition of a rose-bud, which, on the point of 
blossoming, has been chilled into a changeless bud by the cold 
of an untimely frost. For one day, after the father and 
daughter had become a little more accustomed to his silent 
presence, a conversation began between them, which w T ent on 
until he saw that Teufelsbiirst believed in nothing except his 
art. How much of his feeling for that could be dignified by 
the name of belief, seeing its objects were such as they were, 
might have been questioned. It seemed to Wolkenlicht t& 
amount only to this : that, amidst a thousand distastes, it w T as a 
pleasant thing to reproduce on the canvas the forms he beheld 
around him, modifying them to express the prevailing feelings 
of his own mind. 

<{ A more desolate communication between souls than that 
which then passed between father and daughter could hardly 
be imagined. The father spoke of humanity and all its experi- 


356 


ADELA CATHCART. 


ences in a tone of the bitterest scorn. He despised men, and 
himself amongst them; and rejoiced to think that the genera- 
tions rose and vanished, brood after brood, as the crops of corn lj 
grew and disappeared. Lilith, who listened to it all unmoved, r- 
taking only an intellectual interest in the question, remarked i 
that even the corn had more life than that ; for, after its death, 
it rose again in the new crop. Whether she meant that the 
corn was therefore superior to man, forgetting that the supe- u 
rior can produce being without losing its own, or only advanced 
an objection to her father’s argument, Wolkenlicht could not ] 
tell. But Teufelsbiirst laughed like the sound of a saw, and I 
said, ‘ Follow out the analogy, my Lilith, and you will see 
that man is like the corn that springs again after it is buried ; I- 
but unfortunately the only result we know of is a vampire.’ 

“ Wolkenlicht looked up, and saw a shudder pass through the j| 
frame, and over the pale, thin face of the painter. This he 
could not account for. But Teufelsbiirst could have explained 
it, for there were strange whispers abroad, and they had ] 
reached his ear ; and his philosophy was not quite enough for i 
them. But the laugh with which Lilith met this frightful 
attempt at wit grated dreadfully on Wolkenlicht' s feeling. ; 
With her, too, however, a reaction seemed to follow. For, j 
turning round a moment after, and looking at the picture on ^ 
which her father was working, the tears rose in her eyes, and I 
she said, ‘ 0 father, how like my mother you have made i 
me this time ! ’ — 4 Child ! ’ retorted the painter, with a cold j 
fierceness, ‘ you have no mother. That which is gone out is 
gone out. Put no name in my hearing on that which is not. 
Where no substance is, how can there be a name ? ’ 

“ Lilith rose and left the room. Wolkenlicht now under- j: 
stood that Lilith was a frozen bud, and could not blossom into a 
rose. But pure love lives by faith. It loves the vaguely beheld 
and unrealized ideal. It dares believe that the loved is not all j: 
that she ever seemed. It is in virtue of this that love loves ii 
on. And it was in virtue of this, that Wolkenlicht loved i 
Lilith yet more after he discovered what a grave of misery her j 
unbelief was digging for her within her own soul. For her i 
sake he would bear anything, — bear even with calmness the 
torments of his own love ; he would stay on, hoping and 
hoping. The text, that we know not what a day may bring 


ADELA CATIICART. 


857 


forth, is just as true of good things as of evil things ; and out 
of Time’s womb the facts must come. 

“ But with the birth of this resolution to endure, his suffer- 
ing abated ; his face grew more calm ; his love, no less earnest, 
was less imperious ; and he did not look up so often from hia 
work when Lilith was present. The master could see that hia 
pupil was more at ease, and that he was making rapid progress 
in his art. This did not suit his designs, and he would betake 
himself to his further schemes. 

“ For this purpose he proceeded first to simulate a friendship 
for Wolkenlicht the manifestations of which he gradually in- 
creased, until, after a day or two, he asked him to drink wine 
with him in the evening. Karl readily agreed. The painter 
produced some of his best, but took care not toballow Lilith 
to taste it; for he had cunningly prepared and mingled with 
it a decoction of certain herbs and other ingredients, exer- 
cising specific actions upon the brain, and tending to the 
inordinate excitement of those portions of it which are prin- 
cipally under the rule of the imagination. By the reaction 
of the brain, during the operation of these stimulants, the 
imagination is filled with suggestions and images. The nature 
of these is determined by the prevailing mood of the time. 
They are such as the imagination would produce of itself ; bnt 
increased in number and intensity. Teufelsbiirst, without philo- 
sophizing about it, called his preparation a simple love-philter — 
a concoction well known byname, but the composition of which 
was the secret of only a few. Wolkenlicht had, of course, not 
the least suspicion of the treatment to which he was subjected. 

, u Teufelsbiirst was, however, doomed to fresh disappoint- 
ment. Not that his potion failed in the anticipated effect; for 
now Karl’s real sufferings began ; but that such was the 
strength of Karl's will, and his fear of doing anything that 
might give a pretext for banishing him from the presence of 
Lilith, that he w T as able to conceal his feelings far too suc- 
cessfully for the satisfaction of Teufelsbiirst’s art. Yet he had 
to fetter himself with all the restraints that self-exhortation 
could load him with, to refrain from falling at the feet of Lilith 
and kissing the hem of her garment ; for that, as the lowliest 
part of all that surrounded her, itself kissing the earth 


358 


ADELA CATIICART. 


seemed to come nearest within the reach of his ambition, and 
therefore to draw him the most. 

“No doubt the painter had experience and penetration 
enough to perceive that he was suffering intensely ; but he 
wanted to see the suffering embodied in outward signs, bringing 
it within the region over which his pencil held sway. He 
kept on, therefore, trying one thing after another, and rousing 
the poor youth to agony, till to his other sufferings were 
added, at length, those of failing health, — a fact which notified 
itself evidently enough even for Teufelsburst, though its signs 
were not of the sort he chiefly desired. But Karl endured j 
all bravely. 

“ Meantime, for various reasons, he scarcely ever left the 
house. 

“ I must now interrupt the course of my story to introduce 
another element. 

“ A few years before the period of my tale, a certain shoe- 
maker of the city had died under circumstances more than j : 
suggestive of suicide. He was buried, however, with such 
precautions, that six weeks elapsed before the rumor of the [ 
facts broke out; upon which rumor, not before, the most f 
fearful reports began to be circulated, supported by what , 
seemed to the people of Prague incontestable evidence. A 
spectrum of the deceased appeared to multitudes of persons, 
playing horrible pranks, and occasioning indescribable con- 
sternation throughout the whole town. This went on till at 1 
last, about eight months after his burial, the magistrates caused 
his body to be dug up ; when it was found in just the con- ! 
dition of the bodies of those who in the eastern countries of i 
Europe are called vampires. They buried the corpse under 
the gallows; but neither the digging up nor the reburying 
were of avail to banish the spectre. Again the spade and 
pickaxe were set to work, and the dead man, being found con- 
siderably improved in condition since his last interment, was, 
with various horrible indignities, burnt to ashes, J after which 
the spectrum was never seen more.’ 

“ And a second epidemic of the same nature had broken 
out a little before the period to which I have brought my 
story. 

“ About midnight, after a calm, frosty day, for it was now 


ADELA CATIICART. 


859 


wi-iter, a terrible storm of wind and snow came on. The 
tempest howled frightfully about the house of the painter, and 
Wolkenlicht found some solace in listening to the uproar, for 
his troubled thoughts would not allow him to sleep. It raged 
on all the next three days, till about noon on the fourth day, 
when it suddenly fell, and all was calm. The following night, 
Wolkenlicht, lying awake, heard unaccountable noises in the 
next house, as of things thrown about, of kicking and fighting 
horses, and of opening and shutting gates. Flinging wide his 
lattice and looking out, the noise of howling dogs came to 
him from every quarter of the town. The moon was bright 
and the air was still. In a little while he heard the sounds of 
a horse going at full gallop round the house, so that it shook 
as if it would fall ; and flashes of light shone into his room. 
How much of this may have been owing to the effect of the 
drugs on poor Lottchen’s brain, I leave my readers to deter- 
mine. But when the family met at breakfast in the morning, 
Teufelsbiirst, who had been already out of doors, reported that 
he had found the marks of strange feet in the snow, all about 
the house and through the garden at the back ; stating, as his 
belief, that the tracks must be continued over the roofs, for 
there was no passage otherwise. There was a wicked gleam 
in his eye as ho spoke ; and Lilith believed that he was only 
trying an experiment on Karl’s nerves. He persisted that he 
had never seen any footprints of the sort before. Karl in- 
formed him of his experiences during the night: upon which 
Teufelsburst looked a little graver still, and proceeded to tell 
them that the storm, whose snow was still covering the ground, 
had arisen the very moment that their next-door neighbor died, 
and had ceased as suddenly the moment he was buried, though 
it had raved furiously all the time of the funeral, so that 1 it 
made men's bodies quake and their teeth chatter in their 
heads.’ Karl had heard that the man, whose name was 
John Kuntz, was dead and buried. He knew that he had been 
a very wealthy, and therefore most respectable, alderman cf 
the town ; that he had been very fond of horses ; and that he 
had died fn consequence of a kick received from one of his 
own, as he was looking at his hoof. But he had not heard 
that, just before he died, a black cat ‘opened the casement 
with her nails, ran to his bed, and violently scratched his face 


360 


ADELA CATHCART. 


and the bolster, as if she endeavored by force to remove him 
out of the place where he lay. But the cat afterwards was 
suddenly gone, and she was no sooner gone, but he breathed 
his last. 

u So said Teufelsbiirst, as the reporter of the town-talk. 
Lilith looked very pale and terrified ; and it was perhaps owing to 
this that the painter brought no more tales home with him. There 
were plenty to bring, but he heard them all, and said nothing. 
The fact was that the philosopher himself could not resist the 
infection of the fear that was literally raging in the city ; and 
perhaps the reports that he himself had sold himself to the 
devil had sufficient response from his own evil conscience to 
add to the influence of the epidemic upon him. The whole 
place was infested with the presence of the dead Kuntz, till 
scarce a man or woman would dare to be alone. He strangled 
old men , insulted women ; squeezed children to death ; 
knocked out the brains of dogs against the ground ; pulled up 
posts ; turned milk into blood ; nearly killed a worthy clergy- 
man, by breathing upon him the intolerable airs of the grave, 
cold and malignant and noisome ; and, in short, filled the city 
with a perfect madness of fear, so that every report was be- 
lieved without the smallest doubt or investigation. 

“ Though Teufelsbiirst brought home no more of the town- 
talk, the old servant was a faithful purveyor, and frequented 
the news-mart assiduously. Indeed she had some nightmare 
experiences of her own that she was proud to add to the stock 
of horrors which the city enjoyed with such a hearty commu- 
nity of goods. For those regions were not far removed from 
the very birthplace and home of the vampire. The belief in 
vampires is the quintessential concentration and embodiment of 
all the passion of fear in Hungary and the adjacent regions. 
Nor of all the other inventions of the human imagination has 
there ever been one so perfect in crawling terror as this. 
Lilith and Karl were quite familiar with the popular ideas on 
the subject. It did not require to be explained to them that 
a vampire was a body retaining a kind of animal life after the 
soul had departed. If any relation continued between it and 
the vanished ghost, it was only sufficient to make it restless in 
its grave. Possessed of vitality enough to keep it uncorrupted 
and pliant, its only instinct was a blind hunger for the solo 


ADELA CATHCART. 


361 


food, which could keep its awful life persistent, — Mving hu- 
man blood. Hence it, or if not it, a sort of semi-material 
exhalation or essence of it, retaining its form and material re- 
lations, crept from its tomb, and went roaming about till it 
found some one asleep, towards whom it had an attraction 
founded on old affection. It sucked the blood of this unhappy 
being, transferring so much of its life to itself as a vampire 
could assimilate. Death was the certain consequence. If 
suspicion conjectured aright, and they opened the proper grave, 
the body of the vampire would be found perfectly fresh and 
plump, sometimes indeed of rather florid complexion; with 
grown hair, eyes half open, and the stains of recent blood 
about its greedy, leech-like lips. Nothing remained but to con- 
sume the corpse to ashes, upon which the vampire would show 
itself no more. But what added infinitely to the horror was 
the certainty that whoever died by the mouth of the vampire, 
wrinkled grandsire, or delicate maiden, must in turn rise from 
the grave, and go forth a vampire, to suck the blood of the 
dearest left behind. This was the generation of the vampire 
brood. Lilith trembled at the very name of the creature. 
Karl was too much in love to be afraid of anything. Yet the 
evident fear of the unbelieving painter took a hold of his 
imagination; and under the influence of the potions of which 
lie still partook unwittingly, when he was not thinking about 
Lilith, he was thinking about the vampire. 

“Meantime, the condition of things in the painter's house- 
hold continued much the same for Wolkenlicht, — work all 
day ; no communication between the young people ; the dinner 
and the wine ; silent reading when work was done, with stolen 
glances, many over the top of the book, — glances that were never 
returned ; the cold good-night ; the locking of the door ; the 
wakeful night, and the drowsy morning. But at length a 
change came, and sooner than any of the party had expected. 
For, whether it was that the impatience of Teufelsburst had 
urged him to yet more dangerous experiments, or that the con- 
tinuance of those he had been so long employing had overcome 
at length the vitality of Wolkenlicht, one afternoon, as he was 
sitting at his work, he suddenly dropped from his chair and 
his master, hurrying to him in some alarm, found him rigid 
and apparently lifeless. Lilith was not in the study when 


ADELA CATECART. 


QtRO 

tU-i 

this took place. In justice to Teufelsbiirst. it must be con- ' 
fessed that he employed all the skill he was master of, which 
for beneficent purposes was not very great, to restore the youth ; 
but without avail. At last, hearing the footsteps of Lilith, he 
desisted, in some consternation : and that she might escape being 1 
shocked by the sight of a dead body where she had been accus- j 
tomed to see a living one, he removed the lay figure from the 
couch, and laid Karl in its place, covering him with the black 
velvet pall. He was just in time. She started at seeing no 
one in Karl’s place, and said : — 

“ ‘ Where is your pupil, father? ’ 

u 1 Gone home,’ he answered, with a kind of convulsive grin. 

“ She glanced round the room ; caught sight of the lay figure 
where it had not been before ; looked at the couch, and saw the 
pall yet heaved up from beneath ; opened her eyes till the entire 
white sweep around the iris suggested a new expression of con- 
sternation to Teufelsbiirst, though from a quarter whence he 
did not desire or look for it ; and then, without a word, sat 
down to a drawing she had been busy upon the day before. | 
But her father, glancing at her now, as Wolkehlicht had used !j 
to do, could not help seeing that she was frightfully pale. She 
showed no other sign of uneasiness. As soon as he released 1 
her, she withdrew, with one more glance, as she passed, at the 
couch and the figure blocked out in black upon it. She has- j 
tened to her chamber, shut and locked the door, sat down on 
the side of the couch, and fell, not a-weeping, but a-thinking. 
Was he dead ? What did it matter ? They would all be dead 
soon. Iler mother was dead already. It was only that the 
earth could not bear more children, except she devoured those , 
to whom she had already given birth. But what if they had 
to come back in another form, and live another sad, hopeless, i 
loveless life over again ? And so she went on questioning, 
a? id receiving no replies; while through all her thoughts 
passed and repassed the eyes of Wolkenlicht, which she had | 
often felt to be upon her when she did not see them, wild with 
repressed longing, the light of their love shining through the ( 
veil of diffused tears, ever gathering and never overflowing, t 
Then came the pale face, so worshipping, so distant in its self- 
withdrawn devotion, slowly dawning out of the vapors of her 
reverie. When it vanished, she tried to see U again. It would 


ADELA CATHCART. 


SG3 


not come when she called it ; but when her thoughts left knock- 
ing at the door of the lost and wandered away, out came the 
pale, troubled, silent face again, gathering itself up from some 
unknown in her world of fantasy, and once more, when she 
tried to steady it by the fixedness of her own regard, fading 
I back into the mist. So the phantasm of the dead drew near 
and wooed, as the living had never dared. What if there were 
any good in loving? What if men and women did not die all 
out, but some dim shade of each, like that pale, mind-ghost of 
Wolkenlicht, floated through . the eternal vapors of chaos ? 
And what if they might sometimes cross each other’s path, 
meet, know that they met, love on ? Would not that revive 
the withered memory, fix the fleeting ghost, give a new hab- 
itation, a body even, to the poor, unhoused wanderers, frozen 
by the eternal frosts, no longer thinking beings but thoughts 
wandering through the brain of the 1 Melancholy Mass ’ ? 
Back with the thought came the face of the dead Karl, 

: and the maiden threw herself on her bed in a flood of 
bitter tears. She could have loved him if he had only lived ; 
she did love him, for he was dead. But even in the midst of 
the remorse that followed, — for had she not killed him ? — life 
I seemed a less hard and hopeless thing than before. For it is 
love itself, and not its responses or results, that is the soul of 
life and its pleasures. 

• “ Two hours passed ere she could again show herself to her 
I father, from whom she seemed in some new way divided by the 
I new feeling in which he did not, and could not, share. But at 
last, lest he should seek her, and, finding her, should suspect 
her thoughts, she descended and sought him ; for there is a 
maidenliness in sorrow, that wraps her garments close around 
her. But he was not to be seen ; the door of the study was 
locked. A shudder passed through her as she thought of what 
her father, who lost no opportunity of furthering his all but 
perfect acquaintance with the human form and structure, might 
be about with the figure which she knew lay dead beneath that 
velvet pall, but which had arisen to haunt the hollow caves and 
cells of her living brain. She rushed away, and up once more 
to her silent room, through the darkness which had now settled 
down in the house ; threw herself again on her bed, and lay 
almost paralyzed with horror and distress. 

“ But Teufelsburst was not about anything so frightful as 


864 


ADELA CATIICART. 


she supposed, though something frightful enough. I have 
already implied that Wolkenlicht was, in form, as fine an em- 
bodiment of youthful manhood as any old Greek republic could 
have provided one of its sculptors with as model for an Apollo. 
It' is true that to the eye of a Greek artist he would not have 
been more acceptable in consequence of the regimen he had 
been going through for the last few weeks ; but the emacia- 
tion of Wolkenlicht’s frame, and the consequent prominence of 
the muscles, indicating the pain he had gone through, were 
peculiarly attractive to Teufelsbiirst He was busy preparing 
to take a cast of the body of his dead pupil, that it might aid 
in the perfection of his future labors. 

11 He was deep in the artistic enjoyment of a form, at the 
same time so beautiful and strong, yet with the lines of suffering 
in every limb and feature, when his daughter’s hand was laid 
on the latch. He started, flung the velvet drapery over the 
body, and went to the door. But Lilith had vanished. He 
returned to his labors The operation took a long time, for he 
performed it very carefully. Towards midnight, he had finished 
encasing the body in a close-clinging shell of plaster, which, 
when broken off, and fitted together, would be the matrix to the 
form of the dead Wolkenlicht. Before leaving it to harden 
till the morning, he was just proceeding to strengthen it with 
an additional layer all over, when a flash of lightning, reflected 
in all its dazzle from the snow without, almost blinded him. 
A peal of long-drawn thunder followed ; the wind rose ; and 
just such a storm came on as had risen some time before at 
the death of Kuntz, whose spectre was still tormenting the city. 
The gnomes of terror, deep hidden in the caverns of Teufels- 
biirst s nature, broke out jubilant. With trembling hands he 
tried to cast the pall over the awful white chrysalis, — failed, 
and fled to his chamber. And there lay the studio naked to 
the eyes of the lightning, with its tortured forms throbbing out 
of the dark, and quivering, as with life, in the almost contin- 
uous palpitations of the light ; while on the couch lay the 
motionless mass of whiteness, gleaming blue in the lightning, 
almost more terrible in its crude indications of the human form, 
than that which it enclosed. It lay there as if dropped from 
some tree of chaos, haggard with the snows of eternity, — a 
huge misshapen nut, with a corpse for its kernel. 


ADELA CATHCART. 


365 


11 But the lightning would soon have revealed a more terrible 
sight still, had there been any eyes to behold it. At midnight, 
while a peal of thunder was just dying away in the distance, 
the crust of death flew asunder, rending in all directions ; and, 
pale as his investiture, staring with ghastly eyes, the form of 
Karl started up, sitting on the couch. Had he not been far 
beyond ordinary men in strength, he could not thus have rent 
his sepulchre. Indeed, had Teufelsbiirst been able to finish 
his task by the additional layer of gypsum which he contem- 
plated, he must have died the moment life revived ; although, 
so long as the trance lasted, neither the exclusion from the air, 
nor the practical solidification of the walls of his chest, could 
do him any injury. He had lain unconscious throughout the 
operations of Teufelsbiirst ; but now the catalepsy had passed 
away, possibly under the influence of the electric condition of 
the atmosphere. Very likely the strength he now put forth 
^was intensified by a convulsive reaction of all the powers of 
life, as is not unfrequently the case in sudden awakenings 
from similar interruptions of vital activity. The coming to 
himself and the bursting of his case were simultaneous. He 
sat staring about him, with, of all his mental faculties, only 
his imagination awake, from which the thoughts that occupied 
it when he fell senseless had not yet faded. These thoughts 
had been compounded of feelings about Lilith, and speculations 
about the vampire that haunted the neighborhood; and the 
fumes of the last drug of which he had partaken, still hover- 
ing in bis brain, combined with these thoughts and fancies to 
gorsrato the delusion that he had just broken from the embrace 
of his coffin, and risen, the last-born of the vampire-race. The 
sense of unavoidable obligation to fulfil his doom was yet 
mingled with a faint flutter of joy, for he knew that he must go 
to Lilith. With a deep sigh, he rose, gathered up the pall of 
black velvet, flung it around him, stepped from the couch, and 
left the study to find her. 

i: Meant me, Teufelsburst had sufficiently recovered to re- 
member that he had left the door of the studio unfastened, and 
that any one entering would discover in what he had been 
engaged, which, in the case of his getting into any difficulty 
about the death of Karl, would tell powerfully against him. 
He was at the further end of a long passage, leading from the 


366 


ADELA CATIICART. 


house to the studio, on his way to make all secure, when Karlj 
appeared at the door, and advanced towards him. The painter,: 
seized with invincible terror, turned and fled. He reached hisj 
room, and fell senseless on the floor. The phantom held onl . 
its way heedless. 

11 Lilith, on gaining her room the second time, had thrownk 
herself on her bed as before, and had wept herself into al 
troubled slumber. She lay dreaming, and dreadful dreams.k 
Suddenly she awoke in one of those peals of thunder which) 
tormented the high regions of the air, as a storm billows the; 
surface of the ocean. She lay awake and listened. As it 
died away, she thought she heard, mingling with its last muffledj. 
murmurs, the sound of moaning. She turned her face towards) 
the room in keen terror. But she saw nothing. Another® 
light, long-drawn sigh reached her ear, and at the same mo-! ; 
ment a flash of lightning illumined the room. In the corner] 
farthest from her bed she spied a white face, nothing more.k 
She was dumb and motionless with fear. Utter darkness fol4l 
lowed, a darkness that seemed to enter into her very brain.! t 
Yet she felt that the face was slowly crossing the black gulf : 
of the room, and drawing near to where she lay. The next 
flash revealed, as it bended over her, the ghastly face of Karl, I 
down which flowed fresh tears. The rest of his form was lost 
in blackness. Lilith did not faint, but it was the very forcei 
of her fear that seemed to keep her alive. It became for thel 
moment the atmosphere of her life. She lay trembling and 
staring at the spot in the darkness where she supposed the face) 
of Karl still to be. But the next flash showed her the face 
far off, looking through the panes of her lattice-window. 

u For Lottchen, as soon as he saw Lilith, seemed to himself 
to go through a second stage of awaking. Her face made him 
doubt whether he could be a vampire after all ; for, instead of 
wanting to bite her arm and suck the blood, be all but fell down 
at her feet in a passion of speechless love. The next moment he 
became aware that his presence must be at least very undesirable 
to her ; and in an instant he had reached her window, which 
he knew looked upon a lower roof that extended between two 
different parts of the house, and before the next flash came 
he had stepped through the lattice and closed it behind him. 

Believing his own room to be attainable from this quarter, ! 


ADELA CATnCART. 


367 


he proceeded along the roof in the direction he judged best. 
The cold winter air by degrees restored him entirely to his 
ri ght mind, and he soon comprehended the whole of the cir- 
cumstances in which he found himself. Peeping through a 
window he was passing, to see whether it belonged to his room, 
he spied Teufelsbiirst, who at the very moment was lifting his 
head from the faint into which he had fallen at the first sight 
of Lottchen. The moon w T as shining clear, and in its light 
the painter saw, to his horror, the pale face staring in at his 
window. lie thought it had been there ever since he had 
fainted, and dropped again in a deeper swoon than before. 
Karl saw him fall, and the truth flashed upon him that the 
wicked artist took him for what he had believed himself to 
be when first he recovered from his trance, namely, the 
vampire of the former Karl Wolkenlicht. The moment he 
comprehended it, he resolved to keep up the delusion if 
possible. Meantime he was innocently preparing a new in- 
gredient for the popular dish of horrors to be served at the 
ordinary of the city the next day. For the old servant’s were 
not the only eyes that had seen him besides those of Teufels- 
burst. What could be more like a vampire, dragging his pall 
after him, than this apparition of poor, half-frozen Lottchen, 
brawl in 2 across the roof? Karl remembered afterwards that 
he had heard the dogs howling awfully in every direction, as 
he crept along; but this was hardly necessary to make those 
•who saw him conclude that it was the same phantasm of John 
Kuntz, which had been infesting the whole city, and especially 
the house next door to the painter’s, which had been the 
dwelling of the respectable alderman w r ho had degenerated 
into this most disreputable of moneyless vagabonds What 
added to the consternation of all who heard of it, was the 
sickening conviction that the extreme measures which they 
had resorted to in order to free the city from the ghoul, 
beyond which nothing could be done, had been utterly unavail- 
ing, successful as they had proved in every other known case 
of the kind. For, urged as well by various horrid signs 
about his grave, which not even its close proximity to the 
altar could render a place of repose, they had opened it, had 
found in the body every peculiarity belonging to a vampire, 
had pulled it out with the greatest difficulty, on account of a 


368 


ADELA CATHCART. 


quite supernatural ponderosity ; which rendered the horse 
which had killed him — a strong animal — all but unable to 
drag it along, and had at last, after cutting it in pieces, and 
expending on the fire two hundred and sixteen great billets, 
succeeded in conquering its incombustibleness, and reducing it 
to ashes. Such, at least, was the story which had reached 
the painter’s household, and was believed by many ; and if 
all this did not compel the perturbed corpse to rest, what 
more could be done ? 

“When Karl had reached his room, and was dressing jii 
himself, the thought struck him that something might be made 
of the report of the extreme weight of the body of old Kuntz, ; 
to favor the continuance of the delusion of Teufelsbiirst, |r 
although he hardly knew yet to what use he could turn this Id 
delusion. He was convinced that he would have made no 
progress however long he might have remained in his house ; 
and that he would have more chance of favor with Lilith if 
he were to meet her in any other circumstances whatever 
than those in which he invariably saw her, namely, sur- j 


rounded by her father’s influences, and watched by her father’s 
cold blue eyes. 

“ As soon as he was dressed, he crept down to the studio, 
which was now quiet enough, the storm being over, and the 
moon filling it with her steady shine. In the corner lay in all 
directions the fragments of the mould which his own body had 
formed and filled. The bag of plaster and the bucket of 
water which the painter had been using stood beside. Lottchen 
gathered all the pieces together, and then making his way to 
an outhouse where he had seen various odds and ends of 
rubbish lying, chose from the heap as many pieces of old 
iron and other metal as he could find. T.> these he added a 
few lar^e stones from the garden. When he had got all into : 


the studio, he locked the door, and proceeded to fit together the 
parts of the mould, filling up the hollow as he went on with 
the heaviest things he could get into it, and solidifying the 
whole by pouring in plaster ; till, having at length com- 
pleted it, and obliterated, as much as possible, the marks of 
joining, he left it to harden, with the conviction that now it 
would make a considerable impression on Teufelsbiirst’ s imagi- 


nation, as well as on his muscular sense. He then left every- 


ADELA CATHCART. 


869 


thing else as nearly undisturbed as he could ; and, knowing 
all the ways of the house, was soon in the street, without 
leaving any signs of his exit. 

u Karl soon found himself before the house in which his 
friend Hollenrachen resided. Knowing his studious habits he 
had hoped to see his light still burning, nor was he disap- 
pointed. He contrived to bring him to his window, and, a 
moment after, the door was cautiously opened. 

“ 1 Why, Lottchen, where do you come from ? ’ 

“ 4 From the grave, Heinrich, or next door to it.’ 

4 Come in, and tell me all about it. We thought the old 
painter had made a model of you, and tortured you to death.’ 

“ 4 Perhaps you were not far wrong. But get me a horn of 
ale, for even a vampire is thirsty, you know.’ 

4 4 4 A vampire ! ’ exclaimed Heinrich, retreating a pace, and 
involuntarily putting himself upon his guard. 

44 Karl laughed. 

4 4 4 My hand was warm was it not, old fellow?’ he said. 

4 Vampires are cold, all but the blood.’ 

4 4 4 What a fool lam!’ rejoined Heinrich. 4 But you 
know we have been hearing such horrors lately that a fellow 
may be excused for shuddering a little when a pale-faced 
apparition tells him at two o’clock in the morning that he is a 
vampire, and thirsty too.’ 

44 Karl told him the whole story; and the mental process of 
regarding it, for the sake of telling it, revealed to him pretty 
clearly some of the treatment of which he had been uncon- 
scious at the time. Heinrich was quite sure that his suspicions 
were correct. And now the question was, what was to be 
done next. 

4 4 4 At all events,’ said Heinrich, 4 we must keep you out of 
the way for some time. I will represent to my landlady that 
you are in hiding from enemies, and her heart will rule her 
tongue. She can let you have a garret room, I know ; and I 
will dc as well as I can to bear you company. We shall have 
time then to invent some plan of operation.’ 

44 To this proposal Karl agreed with hearty thanks, and soon 
all was arranged. The only conclusion they could yet arrive 
at was, that somehow or other the old demon-painter must be 
tamed. 


370 


ADELA CATHCART. 


u Meantime, how fared it with Lilith ? She, too, had no douht 
that she had seen the body-ghost of poor Karl, and that the 
vampire had, according to rule, paid her the first visit, because 
he loved her best. This was horrible enough if the vampire 
were not really the person he represented ; but if in any sense 
it were Karl himself, at least it gave some expectation of a 
more prolonged existence than her father had taught her to look 
for ; and if love, anything like her mother's, still lasted, even 
along with the habits of a vampire, there was something to hope 
for in the future. And then, though he had visited her, he 
had not, as far as she was aware, deprived her of a drop of 
blood. She could not be certain that he had not bitten her, 
for she had been in such a strange condition of mind that she 
might not have felt it; but she believed that he had restrained 
the impulses of his vampire nature, and had left her, lest he 
should yet yield to them. She fell fast asleep ; and when 
morning came, there was not, as far as she could judge, one of 
those triangular, leech-like perforations to be found upon her ! 
whole body. Will it be believed that the moment she w T as sat- ; 
isfied of this, she was seized by a terrible jealousy, lest Karl j 
should have gone and bitten some one else ? Most people will 
wonder that she should not have gone out of her senses at once ; | 
but there w r as all the difference between a visit from a real vam- 
pire and a visit from a man she had begun to love, even although 
she took him for a vampire. All the difference does not lie in 
a name. They were very different causes, and the effects must 
be very different. 

“ When Teufelsbiirst came down in the morning, he crept 
into the studio like a murderer. There lay the awful white 
block, seeming to his eyes just the same as he had left it. 
What was to be done with it? He dared not open it. Mould 
arid model must go together. But whither ? If inquiry should 
be male after Wolkenlicht, and this were discovered anywhere 
on his premises, would it not bo enough to bring him at once 
to the gallows? Therefore it would be dangerous to bury it 
in the garden, or in the cellar. 

“ £ Besides,’ thought he, with a shudder, 1 that would be to 
fix the vampire as a guest forever.’ And the horrors of the 
past night rushed back upon his imagination with renewed in- 
tensity. What would it be to have the dead Karl crawling 


ADELA CATHCART. 


371 


about bis house forever, now inside, now out, now sitting on 
the stairs, now staring in at the windows ? 

“ He would have dragged it to the bottom of his garden past 
which the Moldau flowed, and plunged it into the stream ; but 
then, should the spectre continue to prove troublesome, it would 
be almost impossible to reach the body so as to destroy it by 
fire ; besides which, he could not do it without assistance, and 
the probability of discovery. If, however, the apparition 
should turn out to be no vampire, but only a respectable ghost, 
they might manage to endure its presence, till it should be 
weary of haunting them. 

“ He resolved at last to convey the body for the mean time 
into a concealed cellar in the house, seeing something must be 
done before his daughter came dowm. Proceeding to remove 
it, his consternation was greatly increased when he discovered 
how the body had grown in weight since he had thus disposed 
of it, leaving on his mind scarcely a hope that it could turn out 
not to be a vampire, after all. He could scarcely stir it, and 
there was but one whom he could call to his assistance, — the 
old woman who acted as his housekeeper and servant. 

[ il He went to her room, roused her, and told her the whole 
Story. Devoted to her master for many years, and not quite 
so sensitive to fearful influences as when less experienced in 
horrors, she showed immediate readiness to render him assist- 
ance. Utterly unable, however, to lift the mass between them, 
they could only drag and push it along ; and such a slow toil 
was it that there was no time to remove the traces of its track, 
before Lilith came down and saw a broad white line leading from 
the door of the studio down the cellar-stairs. She knew in a 
moment what it meant ; but not a word was uttered about the 
matter, and the name of Karl Wolkenlicht seemed to be entire- 
ly forgotten. 

'« But how could the affairs of a house go on all the same 
when every one of the household knew that a dead body lay in 
the cellar ? — nay, more, that, although it lay still and dead 
enough all day, it wmuld come half alive at nightfall, and, 
turning the whole house into a sepulchre by its presence, go 
creeping about, like a cat, all over it in the dark, — perhaps 
with phosphorescent eyes? So it was not surprising that the 
painter abandoned his studio early, and that the three found 


872 


ADELA CATHCART. 


themselves together in the gorgeous room formerly described, j 
as soon as twilight began to fall. 

“Already Teufelsbiirst had begun to experience a kind of j 
shrinking from the horrid faces in his own pictures, and to feel f 
disgusted at the abortions of his own mind. But all that he \ 
and the old woman now felt was an increasing fear as the night 
drew on, a kind of sickening and paralyzing terror. The thing . 
down there would not lie quiet, — at least its phantom in the 
cellars of their imagination would not. As much as possible, !: 
however, they avoided alarming Lilith, w T ho, knowing all they j 
knew, was as silent as they. But her mind was in a strange j 
state of excitement, partly from the presence of a new sense I 
of love, the pleasure of which all the atmosphere of grief into i 
which it grew could not totally quench. It comforted her some- 
how, as a child may comfort when his father is away. 

“ Bedtime came, and no one made a move to go. Without a 
word spoken on the subject, the three remained together all 
night; the elders nodding and slumbering occasionally, and 
Lilith getting some share of repose on a couch. All night the 
shape of death might be somewhere about the house ; but it did 
not disturb them. They heard no sound, saw no sight ; and j 
when the morning dawned, they separated, chilled and stupid, | 
and for the time beyond fear, to seek repose in their private 
chambers. There they remained equally undisturbed. 

“ But when the painter approached his easel a few hours 
after, looking more pale and haggard still than he was wont, I 
from the fears of the night, a new bewilderment took posses- j 
sion of him. He had been busy with a fresh embodiment of ! 
his favorite subject, into which he had sketched the form of 
the student as the sufferer. He had represented poor Wolken- 
licht as just beginning to recover from a trance, while a group 
of surgeons, unaware of the signs of returning life, were ab- i 
sorbed in a minute dissection of one of the limbs. At an open 
door he had painted Lilith passing, with her face buried in a 
bunch of sweet peas. But when he came to the picture, he 
found, to his astonishment and terror, that the face of one cf 
the group was now turned towards that of the victim, regard- 
ing his revival with demoniac satisfaction, and taking pains to 
prevent the others from discovering it. The face of this prince 
of torturers was that of Teufelsbiirst himself. Lilith had alto- 


ADELA CATHCAET. 


373 


■ 

gether vanished, and in her place stood the dim vampire reit- 
eration of the body that lay extended on the table, staring 
greedily at the assembled company. With trembl.'ng hands the 
painter removed the picture from the easel, and turned its face 
to the wall. 

“ Of course this was the work of Lottchen. When he left 
the house, he took with him the key of a small private door, 
which was so seldom used that, while it remained closed, the 
key would not be missed, perhaps for many months. Watch- 
ing the windows, he had chosen a safe time to enter, and had 
been hard at work all night on these alterations. Teufelsburst 
attributed them to the vampire, and left the picture as he found 
it, not daring to put brush to it again. 

11 The next night was passed much after the same fashion. 
But the fear had begun to die away a little in the hearts of the 
women, who did not know what had taken place in the study 
on the previous night. It burrowed, however, with gathered 
force in the vitals of Teufelsburst. But this night likewise 
passed in peace ; and before it was over, the old woman had 
taken to speculating in her own mind as to the best way of 
disposing of the body, seeing it was not at all likely to be trou- 
blesome. But when the painter entered his study in trepida- 
tion the next morning, he found that the form of the lovely 
Lilith was painted out of every picture in the room. This 
could not be concealed; and Lilith and the servant became 
aware that the studio was the portion of the house in haunt 
ing which the vampire left the rest in peace. 

Karl recounted all the tricks he had played to his friend 
Heinrich, who begged to be allowed to bear him company the 
following night. To this Karl consented, thinking it would 
be considerably more agreeable to have a companion. So they 
took a couple of bottles of wine and some provisions with them, 
and before midnight found themselves snug in the study. They 
sat very quiet for some time, for they knew that if they were 
seen, two vampires would not be so terrible as one, and might 
occasion discovery. But at length Heinrich could bear it no 
longer. 

“ ‘ I say, Lottchen, let’s go and look for your dead body. 
What has the old beggar done with it ? 5 


874 


ADELA CATHCART. 


il L I think I know. Stop; let me peep out. All right! 
Come along.’ 

“ With a lamp in his hand, he led the way to the cellars, 
and, after searching about a little, they discovered it. 

“ £ It looks horrid enough,’ said Heinrich; £ but I think a 
drop or two of wine would brighten it up a little.’ 

“ So he took a bottle from his pocket, and, after they had 
had a glass apiece, he dropped a third in blots all over the 
plaster. Being red wine, it had the effect Hollenrachen de- 
sired. 

t£ £ When they visit it next they will know that the vam- 
pire can find the food he prefers,’ said he. 

££ In a corner close by the plaster, they found the clothes 
Karl had worn. 

£££ Hillo!’ said Heinrich, £ we'll make something of this 
find.’ 

££ So he carried them with him to the study. There he got 
hold of the lay-figure. 

££ £ What are you about, Heinrich ? ’ 

££ £ Going to make a scarecrow to keep the ravens off old 
Teufel’s pictures,’ answered Heinrich, as he went on dressing 
the lay-figure in Karl’s clothes. He next seated the creature 
at an easel, with its back to the door, so that it should be the 
first thing the painter should see when he entered. Karl 
meant to remove this before he went, for it was too comical to 
fall in with the rest of his proceedings. But the two sat down 
to their supper, and by the time they had finished the wine 
they thought they should like to go to bed. So they got up 
and went home, and Karl forgot the lay- figure, leaving it in 
busy motionlessness all night before the easel. 

££ When Teufelsburst saw it, he turned and fled with a cry 
that brought his daughter to his help. He rushed past her, 
able only to articulate : — 

££ £ The vampire! The vampire ! Painting ! ’ 

"Far more courageous than he, because her conscience was 
more peaceful, Lilith passed on to the study. She, too, recoiled 
a step or two when she saw the figure ; but with the sight of the 
back of Karl, as she supposed it to be, came the longing to see 
the face that was on the other side. So she crept round and 
round by the wall, as far off as she could. The figure remained 


ADELA CATHCART. 


375 


motionless. It was a strange kind of shock that she experienced 
when she saw the face, disgusting from its inanity. The ab- 
surdity next struck her; and with the absurdity flashed into 
her mind the conviction that this was not the doing of a vam- 
pire ; for of all creatures under the moon he could not be 
expected to be a humorist. A wild hope sprang up in her 
mind that Karl was not dead. Of this she soon resolved to 
make herself sure. 

She closed the door of the study ; in the strength of her 
new hope, undressed the figure, put it in its place, concealed 
the garments, — all the work of a few minutes ; and then, 
finding her father just recovering from the worst of his fear, 
told him there was nothing in the study but what ought to be 
there, and persuaded him to go and see. He not only saw no 
one, but found that no further liberties had been taken with 
his pictures. Reassured, he soon persuaded himself that the 
spectre in this case had been the offspring of his own terror- 
haunted brain. But he had no spirit for painting now. He 
wandered about the house, himself haunting it like a restless 
ghost. 

“ When night came, Lilith retired to her own room. The 
waters of fear had begun to subside in the house ; but the 
painter and his old attendant did not yet follow her example. 

u As soon, however, as the house was quite still, Lilith 
glided noiselessly down the stairs, went into the study, where 
as yet there assuredly was no vampire, and concealed herself 
in a corner. 

“As it would not do for an earnest student like Heinrich to 
be away from his work very often, he had not asked to accom- 
pany Lottchen this time. And indeed Karl himself, a little 
anxious about the result of the scarecrow, greatly preferred 
going alone. 

“ While she was waiting for what might happen, the con- 
viction grew upon Lilith, as she reviewed all the past of the 
story, that these phenomena were the work of the real Karl, 
and of no vampire. In a few moments she was still more sure 
of this. Behind the screen where she had taken refuge hung 
one of the pictures out of which her portrait had been painted 
the night before last. She had taken a lamp with her into the 
study, with the intention of extinguishing it the moment she 


376 


ADELA CATIICART. 


heard any sign of approach ; but, as the vampire lingered, she 
began to occupy herself with examining the picture beside her. 
She had not looked at it long, before she wetted the tip of her 
forefinger, and begun to rub away at the obliteration. Her 
suspicions were instantly confirmed : the substance employed 
•was only a gummy wash over the paint. The delight she 
experienced at the discovery threw her into a mischievous 
humor. 

“ £ I will see,’ she said to herself, £ whether I cannot match 
Karl Wolkenlicht at this game.’ 

“ In a closet in the room hung a number of costumes, which 
Lilith had at different times worn for her father. Among 
them was a large white drapery, which she easily disposed as 
a shroud. With the help of some chalk, she soon made her- 
self ghastly enough, and then placing her lamp on the floor 
behind the screen, and setting a chair over it so that it should 
throw no light in any direction, she waited once more for the 
vampire. Nor had she much longer to wait. She soon heard 
a door move, the sound of which she hardly knew, and then 
the study door opened. Her heart beat dreadfully, not with 
fear lest it should be a vampire after all, but with hope that it 
was Karl. To see him once more was too great joy. Would 
she not make up to him for all her coldness ! But would he 
care for her now ? Perhaps he had been quite cured of his 
longing for a hard heart like hers. She peeped. It was he, 
sure enough, looking as handsome as ever. He was holding 
his light to look at her last work, and the expression of his 
face, even in regarding her handiwork, was enough to let her 
know that he loved her still. If she had not seen this, she 
dared not have shown herself from her hiding-place. Taking 
the lamp in her hand, she got upon the chair, and looked over 
the screen, letting the light shine from below upon her face. 
She then made a slight noise to attract Karl's attention. lie 
looked up, evidently rather startled, and saw the face of Lilith 
in the air. He gave a stifled cry, threw himself on his knees, 
with his arms stretched towards her, and moaned : — 

“ 1 I have killed her ! I have killed her ! ’ 

“Lilith descended, and approached him noiselessly. He did 
not move. She came close to him and said : — 

“ ‘ Are you Karl Wolkenlicht ? ’ 


ADELA CATHCARl. 


877 


“ His lips moved, but no sound, came. 

“ ‘ If you are a vampire, and I am a ghost,’ she said — but 
a low, happy laugh alone concluded the sentence. 

11 Karl sprang to his feet. Lilith’s laugh changed into a 
burst of sobbing and weeping, and in another moment the ghost 
was in the arms of the vampire. 

“ Lilith had no idea how far her father had wronged Karl, 
and though, from thinking over the past, he had no doubt that 
the painter had drugged him, he did not wish to pain her by 
imparting this conviction. But Lilith was afraid of a reaction 
of rage and hatred in her father after the terror was removed ; 
and Karl saw that he might thus be deprived of all further in- 
tercourse with Lilith, and all chance of softening the old man’s 
heart towards him ; while Lilith would not hear of forsaking 
him who had banished all the human race but herself. They 
managed at length to agree upon a plan of operation. 

I “The first thing they did was to go to the cellar where 
the plaster mass lay, Karl carrying with him a great axe used 
for cleaving wood. Lilith shuddered when she saw it, stained 
as it was with the wine Heinrich had spilt over it, and almost 
believed herself the midnight companion of a vampire after 
all, visiting with him the terrible corpse in which he lived all 
day. But Karl soon reassured her ; and a few good blows of 
the axe revealed a very different core to that which Teufels- 
biirst supposed to be in it. Karl broke it into pieces, and with 
Lilith’s help, who insisted on carrying her share, the whole 
was soon at the bottom of the Moldau, and every trace of its 
ever having existed removed. Before morning, too, the form 
of Lilith had dawned anew in every picture. There was no 
time to restore to its former condition the one Karl had first 
altered ; for in it the changes were all that they seemed ; nor 
indeed was he capable of restoring it in the master’s style ; 
but they put it quite out of the way, and hoped that sufficient 
time might elapse before the painter thought of it again. 

“ When they had done, and Lilith, for all his entreaties, 
would remain with him no longer, Karl took his former 
clothes with him, and, having spent the rest of the night in 
his old room, dressed in them in the morning. When Teufels- 
biirst entered his study next day, there sat Karl, a3 if nothing 
had happened, finishing the drawing on which he had been at 


378 


ADELA CATHCART. 


work when the fit of insensibility came upon him. The 
painter started, stared, rubbed his eyes, thought it was another 
spectral illusion, but was on the point of yiehling to his terror, j 
when Karl rose, and approached him with a smile. The;!' 
healthy, sunshiny countenance of Karl, let him be ghost or I 
goblin, could not fail to produce somewhat of a tranquillizing 
effect on Teufelsburst. He took his offered hand mechanically, 
his countenance utterly vacant with idiotic bewilderment. 
Karl said : — 

“ ‘ I was not well, and thought it better to pay a visit to a 
friend for a few days ; but I shall soon make up for lost time , 5 
for I am all right now.’ 

“ He sat down at once, taking no notice of his master’s 
behavior, and went on with his drawing. Teufelsburst stood ■ 
staring at him for some minutes without moving, then suddenly 
turned and left the room. Karl heard him hurrying down the 
cellar stairs. In a few moments he came up again. Karl 
stole a glance at him. There he stood in the same spot, no 
doubt more full of bewilderment than ever ; but it was not 
possible that his face should express more. At last he went 
to his easel, and sat down with a long-drawn sigh as if of i 
relief. But though he sat at his easel, he painted none that 
day; and as often as Karl ventured a glance he saw him still 
staring at him. The discovery that his pictures were restored! 
to their former condition aided, no doubt, in leading him to the 1 
same conclusion as the other facts, whatever that conclusion 
might be, — probably that he had been the sport of some evil 
power, and had been for the greater part of the week utterly I 
bewitched. Lilith had taken care to instruct the old woman, [I 
with whom she was all powerful ; and as neither of them 
showed the smallest traces of the astonishment which seemed 
to be slowly vitrifying his own brain, he was at last perfectly: 
satisfied that things had been going on all right everywhere 
but in his inner man ; and in this conclusion he certainly was 
not far wrong in more senses than one. But when all w r as 
restored again to the old routine, it became evident that the 
peculiar direction of his art in which he had hitherto indulged i 
had ceased to interest him. The shock had acted chiefly upon 
that part of his mental being which had been so absorbed, j 
He would sit for hours without doing anything, apparently 


ADELA CATIICART. 


879 


plunged in meditation. Several weeks elapsed without any 
change, and both Lilith and Karl were getting dreadfully 
anxious about him. Karl paid him every attention ; and tho 
old man, for he now looked much older than before, submitted 
to receive his services as well as those of Lilith. At length, 
one morning, he said in a slow, thoughtful tone : — 

“ 1 Karl Wolkenlicht, I should like to paint you.’ 

“ 1 Certainly, sir,’ answered Karl, jumping up ; ‘where would 
you like me to sit? ’ 

“ So the ice of silence and inactivity was broken, and the 
painter drew and painted ; and the spring of his art flowed 
once more ; and he made a beautiful portrait of Karl, — a 
portrait without evil or suffering. And as soon as he had 
finished Karl, he began once more to paint Lilith ; and when 
he had painted her, he composed a picture for the very purpose 
of introducing them together; and in this picture there was 
neither ugliness nor torture, but human feeling and human 
hope instead. Then Karl knew that he might speak to him of 
Lilith; and he spoke, and was heard with a smile. But he 
did not dare to tell him the truth of the vampire story till one 
day that Teufelsbiirst was lying on the floor of a room in Karl’s 
ancestral castle, half-smothered in grand-children; when the 
only answer it drew from the old man was a kind of shuddering 
laugh, and the words, ‘ Don’t speak of it, Karl, my boy ! ’ ” 

No one had interrupted Harry. His brother had put a 
shovelful of coals on the fire, to keep up the flame ; but not a 
word had been spoken. The cold moon had shone in at the 
windows all the time, her light made yet colder by the snowy 
sheen from the face of the earth ; and any horror that the 
story could generate had had full freedom to operate on tho 
minds of the listeners. 

“ Well, I’m glad it’s over, for my part,” said Mrs Bloom- 
field. It made my flesh creep.” 

“I do not see any good in founding a story upon a super- 
stition. One knows it is false, all the time,” said Mrs. 
Cathcart. 

“ But,” said Harry, “all that I have related might have 
taken place ; for tho story is not founded on the superstition 
itself, but on the belief of the people of the time in the super- 


380 


ADELA CATHCART. 


stition. I have merely used this belief to give the general 
tone to the story, and sometimes the particular occasion for 
events in it, the vampire being a terrible fact to those § 
times.” 

“ You write,” said the curate, “as if you quoted occa- If 
sionally from some authority.” 

“ The story of John Kuntz, as well as that of the shoemaker, 
is told by Henry More in his “ Antidote against Atheism.” He 
believed the whole affair. Hi3 authority is Martin Weinrich, j{ 
a Silesian doctor. I h ive only taken the liberty of shifting : 
the scene of the post-mortem, exploits of Kuntz from a town iv 
of Silesia to Prague.” 

“ Well, Harry/ 5 said his sister-in-law, “if your object wa 3 j 
to frighten us, I confess that I for one was tolerably uncom- It 
fortable. But I don’t know that that is a very high aim in |t 
story-telling.” 

“If that were all, certainly not,” replied Harry, glancing 
towards Adela. who had not spoken. Nor did she speak yet I 
But her expression showed plainly enough that it was not the 
horror of the story that had taken chief hold of her mind, m 
Her face was full of suppressed light, and she was evidently 
satisfied — or shall I call it gratified? — as well as delighted i 
with the tale. Something or other in it had touched her not 
only deeply, but nearly. 

Nothing was said about another meeting, — perhaps because, j| 
from Adela’s illness, the order had been interrupted, and the ! 
present had required a special summons. 

The ladies had gone upstairs to put on their bonnets. I had j 
crossed into the library, which was on the same floor with the !i 
drawing-room, to find out if I was right in supposing I had 
seen some volumes of Henry More’s works on the shelves; ji 
certainly the colonel could never have bought them. Our 
host, the curate, and the school-master had followed me. Harry / 
had remained behind in the drawing-room. Thinking of 
something I wanted to say to him before he went, I left the 
gentlemen looking over the book-shelves, and went to cross 
again to the drawing-room. But when I reached the door, 
there stood, at the top of the stair, Adela and Harry. She had 
evidently just said something warm about the story. I could 
almost read what she had said still lingering on her face, which 


ADELA CATHCART, 


381 


was turned up a good deal to look into his, so near each other 
were they standing. Hers had a rosy flush, as of sunset, over 
it, while his glowed like the sun rising in a mist. Evidently 
the pleasures of giving and receiving were in this case nearly 
equal. But they were not of long duration ; for the moment 
I appeared they bade each other a hurried good-night, and 
parted. I, thinking it better to pretermit my speech to Harry, 
retreated into the library, and was glad to think that no one 
had seen that conference but myself. Such a conjunction of 
planets prefigured, however, not merely warm spring weather, 
but sultry gloom, and thunderous clouds to follow ; and, 
although I was delighted with my astronomical observation, I 
co ild not help growing anxious about the omen. 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE CASTLE. 

The next day, as I passed the school-house on my way to call 
on the curate, I heard such an uproar that I stopped involun- 
tarily to listen. I soon satisfied myself that it was only the 
usual water-spout occasioned on the ocean of boyhood by the 
vacuum of the master. As soon as I entered the curate s 
study, there stood the missing master, hat in hand. He had 
not sat down, and would not, hearing all the time, no doubt, in 
his soul, the far confusion of his forsaken realm. He had but 
that moment entered. 

“ You come just in the right time, Smith,” said the 
curate. — We had already dropped unnecessary prefixes. — 
“ Here is Mr. Bloomfield come to ask us to spend a final even- 
ing with him and Mrs. Bloomfield. And in the name of the 
whole company, I have taken upon me to assure him that it 
will give us pleasure. Am I not right? 

“ Undoubtedly,” I replied. “ What evening have you fixed 
upon, Mr. Bloomfield ? ” 

“ This day week,” he answered. “ Shall I tell you why I 
put it off so long ? ” 


882 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ If you please. ” 

“ 1 heard your brother, Mr. Armstrong, say that you were 
very fond of parables. Now, I have always had a leaning that 
way myself ; and for years I have had one in particular glim- 
mering before my mental sight. The ambition seized me to 
write it out for one of our meetings, aDd to submit it to your 
judgment; for, Mr. Armstrong, I am so delighted with your 
sermons and opinions generally, that I long to let you know 
that I am not only friendly, but capable of sympathizing with 
you. But it is only in the rough yet, and I want to have 
plenty of time to act the dutiful bear to my offspring, and 
lick it into thorough shape. So if you will come this day 
week, Mrs. Bloomfield and I will be delighted to entertain you 
in our humble fashion. But, bless me ! the boys will be all 
in a heap of confusion worse confounded before I get back to 
them. I have no business to be away from them at this hour. 
Good-morning, gentlemen . ’ ’ 

And off ran the worthy Neptune, to quell, by the vision of 
his returning head, the rebellious waves of boyish impulse. 

“ That man will be a great comfort to you, Armstrong,” I 
said. 

“ I know he will. He is a far-seeing and, what is better, 
a far-feeling man.” 

“ There is true wealth in him, it seems to me, although it 
may be of narrow reach in expression,” said I. 

“ 1 think so, quite. He seems tome to be one of those who 
have never grown robust, because they have labored in-doors 
instead of going out to work in the open air. There is a 
shrinking delicacy about him, when with those whom he doesn’t 
feel to be of his own kind, which makes him show to a disad- 
vantage. But you should see him amongst his boys to do him 
justice.” 

We were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Armstrong, 
who came, after their simple fashion, to tell her husband that 
dinner was ready. I took my leave. 

In the evening Mrs. Bloomfield called to invite Adela and 
the colonel ; and the affair was settled for that day week. 

“You’re much better, my dear, are you not?” said the 
worthy woman to my niece. 

“Indeed I am, Mrs. Bloomfield. I could not have be- 


ADELA CATHCART. 


383 


lieved it possible that I should be so much better in so short a 
time, — and at this season of the year too." 

“Mr. Armstrong is a very clever young man, I think; 
though I can’t say I quite relished that extraordinary story of 
his.” 

“ I suppose he is clever,” replied Adela, something demurely 
as I thought “ I must say I liked the story.” 

“ Ah, well ! Young people, you know, Mr. Smith — But, 
bless me ! I'm sure I beg your pardon. I had forgotten you 
weren’t a married man. Of course you’re one of the young 
people too, Mr. Smith.” 

“ I don’t think there’s much of youth to choose between you 
and me, Mrs. Bloomfield,” said I, “if I may venture to say so. 
But I fear I do belong to the young people, if a liking for 
extravagant stories — so long as they mean well, you know — 
is to be the test of the classification. I fear I have a depraved 
taste that way. I don’t mean in this particular instance, 
though, Adela.” 

“I hope not,” answered Adela, with a blushing smile, 
which I, at least, could read, having had not merely the key 
to it, but the open door and window as well, ever since I had 
seen the two standing together at the top of the stair. 

That night the weather broke. A slow thaw set in ; and, 
before many days were over, islands of green began to appear 
amid the “wan water” of the snow, — to use a phrase 
common in Scotch ballads, though with a different application. 
The graves in the church-yard lifted up their green altars of 
earth, as the first whereon to return thanks for the prophecy 
of spring; which, surely, if it has force and truth anywhere, 
speaks loudest to us in the church-yard. And on Sunday the 
sun broke out and shone on the green hillocks, just as good 
old Mr. Venables was reading the words, “ I will not leave 
you comfortless — I will come to you.” 

And the ice vanished from the river, and the dark stream 
flowed, somewhat sullen, but yet glad at heart, on through the 
low meadows bordered with pollards, which, poor things, mal- 
treated and mutilated, yet did the best they could, and went 
on growing wildly in all insane shapes, — pitifully mingling 
formality and grotesqueness. 


384 


ADELA CATIICART. 


And the next day the hounds met at Castle Irksham. And) 
that day Colonel Cathcart would ride with them. 

For the good man had gathered spirit just as the light grew; 
upon his daughter's face. And he was merry like a boy now|« 
that the first breath of spring — for so it seemed, although no 
doubt plenty of wintriness remained and would yet show itself 
— had loosened the hard hold of the frost, which is the death 
of Nature. The frost is hard upon old people ; and the spring 
is so much the more genial and blessed in its sweet influences! 
on them. Do we grow old that, in our weakness and loss of 
physical self-assertion, we may learn the benignities of the 
universe, — only to be learned first through the feeling of their 
want ? I do not envy the man who laughs the east wind to 
scorn. He can never know the balmy power of its sister of : 
the west, which is the breath of the Lord, the symbol of the 1 
one genial strength at the root of all life, resurrection, and 
growth, — commonly called the Spirit of God. Who has not 
seen, as the infirmities of age grow upon old men, the haughty, j 
self-reliant spirit that had neglected, if not despised, the gentle 
ministration of love, grow as it were a little scared, and begin j 
to look about for some kindness ; begin to return the warm j 
pressure of the hand, ana to submit to be w’aited upon by the ! 
anxiety of love? Not in weakness alone comes the second 
childhood upon men, but often in childlikeness ; for in old age, i 
as in nature, to quote the song of the curate, — 

“ Old Autumn’s fingers 
Paint in hues of Spring.” 

The necessities of the old man prefigure and forerun the dawn 
of the immortal childhood. For is not our necessity towards God 
our highest blessedness, — the fair cloud that hangs over the 
summit of existence ? Thank God, he has made his children 
so noble and high that they cannot do without him ! I believe 
we are sent into this world just to find this out. 

But to leave my reflections and return to my story, — such 
as it is. The colonel mounted me on an old horse of his, 
‘•whom/’ to quote from Sir Philip Sidney’s “Arcadia,” “though 
he was near twenty years old, he preferred, for a piece of sure 
service, before a great number of younger.” Now the piece 
of sure service, in the present instance, was to take care of old 


ADELA CATIICART. 


385 


John Smith, who was only a middling horseman, though his 
friend, the colonel, would say that he rode pretty well for a 
lad. The old horse, in fact, knew not only what he could do, 
but what I could do, for our powers were about equal. Ho 
looked well about for the gaps and the narrow places. From 
weakness in his forelegs, he had become a capital buck-jumper, as 
I think Cathcart called him, always alighting over a hedge on 
his hind legs, instead of his fore ones, which was as much 
easier for John Smith as for Hop o’ my Thumb, — that was the 
name of the old horse, — he being sixteen hands, at least. But I 
beg my reader’s pardon for troubling him with all this about 
my horse, for, assuredly, neither he nor I will perform any deed 
of prowess in his presence. But I have the weakness of gar- 
rulity in regard to a predilection from the indulgence of which 
circumstances have debarred me. 

At nine o’clock my friend and I started upon hacks for the 
meet. Now, I am not going to describe the u harrow and weal 
away ! ” with which the soul of poor Reynard is hunted out of 
the world, — if, indeed, such a clever wretch can have a soul. 
I dare say, I hope, at least, that the argument of the fox- 
hunter is analogically just, who, being expostulated with on 
the cruelty of fox-hunting, replied, “ Well, you know the 
hounds like it; and the horses like it; and there’s no doubt 
the men like it, — and who knows whether the fox doesn’t like it 
too?” But I would not have introduced the subject, except 
for the sake of what my reader will find in a course of a page 
or two, and which assuredly is not fox-hunting. 

; We soon found. But just before, a sudden heavy noise, com- 
ing apparently from a considerable distance, made one or two 
of the company say, with passing curiosity, u What is that?” 
It was instantly forgotten, however, as soon as the fox broke 
cover. He pointed towards Purley-bridge. We had followed 
for some distance, circumstances permitting Hop o’ my Thumb 
to keep in the wake of his master, when the colonel, drawing 
rein, allowed me — I ought to say us, for the old horse had 
quite as much voice in the matter as I had — to come up with 
him. 

“ The cunning old dog ! ” said he. “ He has run straight 
for the deepest cutting in the railway. They’ll all be pounded 
presently ! They don't know this part so well as I do. I 


386 


ADELA CATHCART. 


know every field and gate in it. I used to go larking over i 
it all when I was only a cub myself. Confound it ! I’m not 1/ 
up to much to-day. I suppose I’m getting old, you know ; or 
I’d strike off here at right angles to the left, and make for the : 
bridge at Crumple’s Corner. I should lose the hounds though, |J 
I fear. I wonder what his lordship will do.” 

All the time my old friend was talking we were following [j 
the rest of the field, whom, sure enough, as soon as we got 
into the next inclosure, we saw drawing up one after another p 
on top of the railway cutting, which ran like the river of death j| 
between them and the fox-hunter’s paradise. But at the mo- s 
ment we entered this field, whom should we see approaching j 
us at right angles, from the direction of Purley-bridge, but Har- 
ry Armstrong, mounted on the mare ! I rode towards him. 

“Trapped, you see,” said I. “Are you after the fox — • 
or some nobler game ? ” 

“ I was going my rounds,” answered Harry, “ when I caught 
sight of the hounds. I have no very pressing case to-day, so I i 
turned a few yards out of the road to see a bit of the sport, j 
Confound these railways ! ” 

At the moment, — and all this passed, as the story-teller is < 
so often compelled to remind his reader, in far less time than i 
it takes to tell, — over the hedge on the opposite side from 
where Harry had entered the field, blundered a country fellow, 
on a great, heavy, but spirited horse, and ploughed his way up 
the soft furrow to where we stood. 

“ Doctor ! ” he cried, half-breathless with haste and exertion. 
— “ Doctor ! ” 

“Well?” answered Henry, alert. 

“ There’s a awful accident atGrubblebon Quarry, sir. Pow- 
der bio wed up. Legs and arms ! Good God ! sir, make haste.’ 

“ Well,” said Harry, whose compressed lips alone gave sign 
of his being ready for action, “ ride to the town, and tell my 
house-keeper to give you bandages, and wadding, and oil, and 
splints, and whatever she knows to be needful. Are there 
many hurt?” 

“Half a dozen alive, sir.” 

“ Then you’d better let the other doctors know as well. And 
just tell my man to saddle Jilter, and take him to my brother, 
the curate. He had better come out at once. Ride now.” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


387 


“ I will, sir,” said the man, and was over the hedge in 
another minute. 

But not before Harry was over the railway. For he rode 
gently towards it, as if nothing particular was to be done, and 
chose as the best spot one close to where several of the gentle- 
men stood, disputing for a moment as to which was the best 
way to get across. Now, on the top of the cutting there was a 
rail, and between the rail and the edge of the cutting a space 
of about four feet. Harry trotted his mare gently up to the 
rail, and went over. Nor was the mutual confidence of mare 
and master misplaced from either side. She lighted and stood 
stock still within a foot of the slope, so powerful was she to 
stop herself. An uproar of cries arose among the men. I 
heard the old soldier’s voice above them all. 

“ Damn you, Armstrong, you fool!” he cried; “ you’ll 
break your neck, and serve you right too ! ” 

I don’t know” a stronger proof that the classical hell has 
little hold on the faith of the Saxons, than that good-hearted 
and true men will not unfrequently damn their friends when 
they are most anxious to save them. But before the w r ords 
were half out of the colonel’s mouth, Harry was half-way down 
the cutting. He had gone straight at it, like a cat, and it was 
of course the only way. I had galloped to the edge after him, 
and now saw him, or rather her, descending by a succession of 
rebounds, — not bounds, — a succession, in fact, of short falls 
upon the fore-legs, while Harry’s head was nearly touching 
her rump. Arrived at the bottom, she gave two bounds across 
the rails, and the same moment was straining right up the 
opposite bank in a fierce agony of effort, Harry hanging upon 
her neck. Now the mighty play of her magnificent hind 
quarters came into operation. I could see, plainly enough 
across the gulf, the alternate knotting and loosening of the 
thick muscles as, step by step, she tore her way up the grassy 
slope ; it was a terrible trial of muscle and wind, and very few 
horses could have stood it. As she neared the top, her pace 
grew slower and slower, and the exertion more and more 
severe. If she had given in, she would have rolled to the 
bottom ; but nothing was less in her thoughts. Her master 
never spurred or urged her, except it may have been by whis- 
pering in her ear, to which his mouth was near enough ; he 


388 


AD EL A CATIICART. 


knew she needed no excitement to that effort. At length ; 
the final heave of her rump, as it came up to a level with her 
withers, told the breathless spectators that the attempt was a 
success, when a loud “ Hurrah for the doctor and his mare ! ” 
burst from their lips. The doctor, however, only waved his 
hand in acknowledgment, for he had all to do yet. Fortu- |i 
nately there was space enough between the edge and the fence jc 
on that side to allow of his giving his mare a quarter of a 
circle of a gallop before bringing her up to the rail, else in her ! 
fatigue she might have failed to top it. Over she went and away, | 
with her tail streaming out behind her, as if she had done i- 
nothing worth thinking about, once it was done. One more ; 
cheer for the doctor ; but no one dared to follow him. They ; 
scattered in different directions to find a less perilous crossing. ; 
I stuck by my leader. 

“ By Jove ! Cathcart,” said Lord Irksham, as they parted, I 
“ that doctor of yours is a hero. He ought to have been bred 
a soldier.” 

“He’s better employed, my lord,” bawled the old colonel; 
for they were now a good many yards asunder, making for b 
different points in the hedge. From this answer, I hoped well 
for the doctor. At all events, the colonel admired his man- 
liness more than ever, and that was a great thing. For me, I 
could hardly keep down the expression of an excitement which j 
I did not wish to show. It was a great relief to me when the i 
hurrah ! arose, and I could let myself off in that way. I 
told you, kind reader, I was only an old boy. But, as the 
Arabs always give God thanks when they see a beautiful woman, | 
and quite right too, so, in my heart, I praised God who had 
made a mare with such muscles, and a man with such a heart. ! 
And I said to myself, “ A fine muscle is a fine thing ; but the j 
finest muscle of all, keeping the others going too, is the heart j 
itself. That is the true Christian muscle. And the real , 
muscular Christianity is that which pours in a life-giving tor- 
rent from the devotion of the heart, receiving only that it may 
give.” 

But I fancy I hear my reader saying : — 

“ Mr. Smith, you’ve forgotten the fox. What a sportsman : 
you make ! ” 

Well, I had forgotten the fox. But then we didn’t kill him 


ADELA CATHCART. 


389 


or find another that day. So you won’t care for the rest of 
the run. 

I was tired enough by the time we got back to Purley-bridge. 
I went early to bed. 

The next morning, the colonel, the moment we met at the 
breakfast table, said to me : — 

“ You did not hear, Smith, what that young rascal of a doc- 
tor said to Lord Irksham last night?” 

“ No, what was it? ” 

“ It seems they met again towards evening, and his lordship 
said to him, * You hare-brained young devil ! ’ — you know 
his lordship’s rough way,” interposed the colonel, forgetting 
how roundly he had sworn at Harry himself, — “ 1 by the time 
you’re my age, you’ll be more careful of the few brains you’ll 
have left.’ To which expostulation Master Harry replied * 
1 If your lordship had been my age, you would have done it 
yourself to kill a fox ; when I am your lordship’s age, I hope 
I shall have the grace left to do as much to save a man.’ 
Whereupon his lordship rejoined, holding out his hand, 1 By 
Jove ! sir, you are an honor to your profession. Come and 
dine with me on Monday.’ And what do you think the idiot 
did ? — Backed out of it, and wouldn’t go, because he thought 
his lordship condescending, and he didn’t want his patronage. 
But his lordship’s not a bit like that, you know.” 

“ Then, if he isn’t, he’ll like Harry all the better for declin- 
ing, and will probably send him a proper invitation.” 

And, sure enough, I was right ; and Harry did dine at Castlo 
Irksham on Monday. 

Adela’s eyes showed clearly enough that her ears were de- 
vouring every word we had said ; and the glow on her face 
could not be mistaken by me at least, though to another it 
might well appear only the sign of such an enthusiasm as one 
would like every girl to feel in the presence of noble conduct 
of any kind. She had heard the whole story last night, you 
may be sure ; and I do not doubt that the unrestrained admira- 
tion shown by her father for the doctor’s conduct was a light 
in her heart which sleep itself could not extinguish, and which 
went shining on in her dreams. Admiration of the beloved is 
dear to a woman. You see I like tc show that, although I am 
an old bachelor, I know something about them . 


390 


ADELA CATHCART. 


I met Harry that morning; that is, I contrived to meet 
him. 

“ Well, how are you to-day, Harry? ” I said. 

“ All right, thank you.” 

“ Were there many hurt at the quarry? ” 

“ Oh ! it wasn’t so very bad, I’m happy to say.” 

“You did splendidly yesterday.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! It was my mare. It wasn’t me. I had 
nothing to do with it.” 

“Well ! well ! you have my full permission to say so, and 
to think so too.” 

“ Well ! well ! say no more about it.” 

So it was long before the subject was again alluded to by 
me. But it will be long, too, before it is forgotten in that 
county. 

And so the evening came when we were to meet — for the 
last time as the Story-telling Club — at the school-master’s 
house. It was now past the time I had set myself for return- 
ing to London, and, although my plans were never of a very 
unalterable complexion, seeing I had the faculty of being able 
to write wherever I was, and never admitted chairs and tables, 
and certain rows of bookshelves, to form part of my mental 
organism, without which the rest of the mechanism would be 
thrown out of gear, I had yet reasons wishing to be in Lon- 
don ; and I intended to take my departure on the day but one 
after the final meeting. I may just remark, that before this 
time one or two families had returned to Purley-bridge, and 
others were free from their Christmas engagements, who would 
have been much pleased to join our club ; but, considering its 
ephemeral nature, and seeing it had been formed only for what 
we hoped was a passing necessity, we felt that the introduction 
of new blood, although essential for the long life of anything 
constituted for long life, would only hasten the decay of its 
butterfly constitution. So we had kept our meetings entirely 
to ourselves. 

We all arrived about the same time, and found our host and 
hostess full of quiet cordiality, to which their homeliness lent 
an additional charm. The relation of host and guest is weak- 
ened by every addition to a company, and in a large assembly 
all but disappears. Indeed, the tendency of the present age 


ADELA CATOCART. 


891 


is to blot from the story of every-day life all reminders of the 
ordinary human relations, as commonplace and insignificant, 
and to mingle all society in one concourse of atoms, in which 
the only distinctions shall be those of rank ; whereas the sole 
power to keep social intercourse from growing stale is the rec- 
ognition of the immortal and true in all the simple human 
relations. Then we look upon all men with reverence, and 
find ourselves safe and at home in the midst of divine intents, 
which may be violated and striven w'ith, but can never be 
escaped, because the will of God is the very life and well- 
being of his creatures. 

Mrs. Bloomfield looked very nice in her black silk dress, 
and collar and cuffs of old lace, as she presided at the tea-table, 
and made us all feel that it was a pleasure to her to serve us. 

After repeated apologies, and confessions of failure, our host 
then read the following parable , as he called it, though I dare 
say it would be more correct to call it an allegory. But as 
that word has so many wearisome associations, I, too, intend, 
w hether right or wrong, to call it a parable. So, then, it shall 
be 

“THE CASTLE: A PARABLE. 

“ On the top of a high cliff, forming part of the base of a 
great mountain, stood a lofty castle. When or how it was 
built, no man knew ; nor could any one pretend to understand 
its architecture. Every one who looked upon it felt that it 
was lordly and noble ; and where one part seemed not to agree 
with another, the wise and modest dared not to call them incon- 
gruous, but presumed that the whole might be constructed on 
some higher principle of architecture than they yet understood. 
What helped them to this conclusion was, that no one had ever 
seen the whole of the edifice ; that, even of the portion best 
known, some part or other was always wrapped in thick folds of 
mist from the mountain ; and that, when the sun shone upon 
this mist, the parts of the building that appeared through the 
vaporous veil were strangely glorified in their indistinctness, so 
that they seemed to belong to some aerial abode in the land of 
the sunset ; and the beholders could hardly tell whether they 
had evjr seen them before, or whether they were now for the 
first time partially revealed. 


892 


ADELA CATHCART. 


li Nor, although it was inhabited, could certain information j 
be procured as to its internal construction. Those who dwelt : 
in it often discovered rooms they had never entered before ; I 
yea, once or twice, whole suites of apartments, of which only | 
dim legends had been handed down from former times. Some ; 
of them expected to find, one day, secret places, filled with i 
treasures of wondrous jewels ; amongst which they hoped to i> 
light upon Solomon’s ring, which had for ages disappeared I 
from the earth, but which had controlled the spirits, and the \y 
possession of which made a man simply what a man should be, | 
the king of the world. Now and then, a narrow, winding || 
stair, hitherto untrodden, w T ould bring them forth on a new tur- | 
ret, whence new prospects of the circumjacent country w r ere !* 
spread out before them. How many more of these there might 
be, or how much loftier, no one could tell. Nor could the i. 
foundations of the castle in the rock on which it was built be 
determined with the smallest approach to precision. Those of I 
the family who had given themselves to exploring in that ; 
direction found such a labyrinth of vaults and passages, and 
endless successions of down-going stairs, out of one under- | 
ground space into a yet lower, that they came to the conclusion 
that at least the whole mountain was perforated and honey- i 
combed in this fashion. They had a dim consciousness, too, 
of the presence, in those awful regions, of beings whom they j 
could not comprehend. Once, they came upon the brink of a I 
great black gulf, in which the eye could see nothing but dark- | 
ness ; they recoiled with horror ; for the conviction flashed 
upon them that that gulf went down into the very central j 
spaces of the earth, of which they had hitherto been wandering j 
only in the upper crust ; nay, that the seething blackness be- i 
fore them had relations mysterious, and beyond human com- 
prehension, with the far-off voids of space, into which the stars j 
dare not enter. 

“ At the foot of the cliff whereon the castle stood lay a deep 
lake, inaccessible save by a few avenues, being surrounded on 
all sides with precipices, which made the water look very 
black, although it was pure as the night sky. From a door 
in the castle, which was not to be otherwise entered, a broad ; 
flight of steps, cut in the rock, went down to the lake, and dis- ; 
appeared below its surface. Some thought the steps went to 
the very bottom of the water. 


ADELA CATIICART. 


893 


“Now in this castle there dwelt a large family of brothers 
and sisters. They had never seen their father or mother. 
The younger had been educated by the elder, and these by an 
I unseen care and ministration, about the sources of which they 
K had, somehow or other, troubled themselves very little, for 
what people are accustomed to they regard as coming from 
f; nobody ; as if help and progress and joy and love were the 
natural crops of Chaos or old Night. But Tradition said 
that one day — it was utterly uncertain when — their father 
would come, and leave them no more ; for he was still alive, 
though where he lived nobody knew. In the mean time all 
the rest had to obey their eldest brother, and listen to his 
counsels. 

“But almost all the family was very fond of liberty, as 
* they called it, and liked to run up and down, hither and 
thither, roving about, with neither law nor order, just as they 
( pleased. So they could not endure their brother’s tyranny, as 
I they called it. At one time they said that he was only one 
of themselves, and therefore they would not obey him ; at 
another, that he was not like them, and could not understand 
them, and therefore they would not obey him. Yet, some- 
times, when he came and looked them full in the face, they 
were terrified, and dared not disobey, for he was stately, and 
stern, and strong. Not one of them loved him heartily, ex- 
; cept the eldest sister, who was very beautiful and silent, and 
. whose eyes shone as if light lay somewhere deep behind them. 
Even she, although she loved him, thought him very hard 
sometimes, for when he had once said a thing plainly, he could 
not be persuaded to think it over again. So even she forgot 
him sometimes, and went her own ways, and enjoyed herself 
without him. Most of them regarded him as a sort of watch- 
' man, whose business it was to keep them in order ; and so 
they were indignant, and disliked him. Yet they all had a 
secret feeling that they ought to be subject to him ; and after 
any particular ac.t of disregard, none of them could think, 
with any peace, of the old story about the return of their 
father to his house. But, indeed, they never thought much 
about it, or about their father at all ; for how could those who 
cared so little for their brother, whom they saw every day, 
care for their father, whom they had never seen ? One chief 


894 


ADELA CATIICART. 


cause of complaint against him was, that he interfered with 
their favorite studies and pursuits ; whereas he only sought to 
make them give up trifling with earnest things, and seek for j| 
truth, and not for amusement, from the many wonders around 
them. He did not want them to turn to other studies, or to t 
eschew pleasures ; but in those studies to seek the highest 
things mo3t, and other things in proportion to their true worth 
and nobleness. This could not fail to be distasteful to those jll 
who did not care for what was higher than they. And so \ 
matters went on for a time. They thought they could do J 
better without their brother, and their brother knew they j? 
could not do at all without him, and tried to fulfil the charge \\ 
committed into his hands. 

“ At length, one day, for the thought seemed to strike them 
simultaneously, they conferred together about giving a great ' . 
entertainment in their grandest rooms to any of their neigh- I 
bors who chose to come, or indeed to any inhabitants of the it 
earth or air who would visit them. They were too proud to J 
reflect that some company might defile even the dwellers in !| 
what was undoubtedly the finest palace on the face of the 
earth. But w T hat made the thing worse was. that the old 
tradition said that these rooms were to be kept entirely for j 
the use of the owner of the castle. And, indeed, whenever i 
they entered them such was the effect of their loftiness and d 
grandeur upon their minds, that they always thought of the 
old story, and could not help believing it. Nor would the j 
brother permit them to forget it now; but, appearing sud- [ 
denly amongst them, when they had no expectation of being j, 
interrupted by him, he rebuked them, both for the indiscrimi- ' 
nate nature of their invitation, and for the intention of intro- 1 
ducing any one, not to speak of some who would doubtless 
make their appearance on the evening in question, into the 
rooms kept sabred for the use of the unknown father. But 
by this time their talk with each other had so excited their 
expectations of enjoyment, which had previously been strong 
enough, that anger sprung up within them at the thought of 
being deprived of their hopes, and they looked each other in 
the eyes; and the look said, 1 We are many, and he is one; 
let us get rid of him, for he is always finding fault, and 
thwarting us in the most innocent pleasures; as if we would 


ADELA CATHCART. 


395 


wish to d ) anything wrong ! J So, without a word spoken, 
they rushed upon him ; and although he was stronger than 
any of them, and struggled hard at first, yet they overcame 
him at last. Indeed, some of them thought he yielded to their 
violence long before they had the mastery of him ; and this 
very submission terrified the more tender-hearted among them. 
However, they bound him, carried him down many stairs, 
and, having remembered an iron staple in the wall of a certain 
vault, with a thick rusty chain attached to it, they bore him 
thither, and made the chain f ist around him. There they left 
him, shutting the great gnarring brazen door of the vault, as 
they departed for the upper regions of the castle. 

u Now all was in a tumult of preparation. Every one was 
talking of the coming festivity ; but no one spoke of the deed 
they had done. A sudden paleness overspread the face, now 
of one, and now of another ; but it passed away, and no one 
took any notice of it ; they only plied the task of the moment 
the more energetically. Messengers were sent far and near, 
not to individuals or families, but publishing in all places of 
concourse a general invitation to any who chose to come on a 
certain day, and partake, for certain succeeding days, of the 
hospitality of the dwellers in the castle. Many were the 
preparations immediately begun for complying with the invi- 
tation. But the noblest of their neighbors refused to appear ; 
not from pride, but because of the unsuitableness and careless- 
ness of such a mode. With some of them it was an old condi- 
tion in the tenure of their estates, that they should go to no 
one’s dwelling except visited in person, and expressly solic- 
ited. Others, knowing what sort of persons would be there, 
and that, from a certain physical antipathy, they could 
scarcely breathe in their company, made up their minds at 
once not to go. Yet multitudes, many of them beautiful and 
innocent as well as gay, resolved to appear. 

“ Meanwhile the great rooms of the castle were got in 
readiness, — that is, they proceeded to deface them with dec- 
orations ; for there was a solemnity and stateliness about them 
in their ordinary condition which was at once felt to be un- 
suitable for the light-hearted company so soon to move about 
in them with the self-same carelessness with which men walk 
abroad within the great heavens and hills and clouds. One 


896 


ADELA CATHCART. 


day, while the workmen were busy, the eldest sister, of whom 
I have already spoken, happened to enter, she knew not why. ) 
Suddenly the great idea of the mighty halls dawned upon 
her, and filled her soul. The so-called decorations vanished 
from her view T , and she felt as if she stood in her father’s 
presence. She was at once elevated and humbled. As sud- 
denly the idea faded and fled, and she beheld but the gaudy 
festoons and draperies and paintings which disfigured the 
grandeur. She wept, and sped away. Now it was too late to 
interfere, and things must take their course. She would have 
been but a Cassandra-prophetess to those who saw but the 
pleasure before them She had not been present when her 
brother was imprisoned ; and indeed for some days had been 
so w’rapped in her own business, that she had taken but little j 
heed of anything that was going on. But they all expected 
her to show herself when the company w T as gathered ; and 
they had applied to her for advice at various times during 
their operations. 

“ At length the expected hour arrived, and the company as- : 
sembled. It was a warm summer evening. The dark lake re- i 
fleeted the rose-colored clouds in the west, and through the 
flush rowed many gayly painted boats, with various colored flags, j 
towards the massy rock on which the castle stood. The trees 
and flowers seemed already asleep, and breathing forth their j 
sweet dream-breath. Laughter and low voices rose from the ; 
breast of the lake to the ears of the youths and maidens look- 
ing forth expectant from the lofty windows. They w T ent down 
to the broad platform, at the top of the stairs in front of the | 
door, to receive their visitors. By degrees the festivities of the 
evening commenced. The same smiles flew forth, both at eyes 
and lips, darting like beams through the gathering crowd. I 
Music, from unseen sources, now rolled in billows, now crept 
in ripples through the sea of air that filled the lofty rooms. , 
And in the dancing halls, when hand took hand, and form and 
motion were moulded and swayed by the indwelling music, it 
governed not these alone, but, as the ruling spirit of the place, 
every new burst of music for a new dance swept before it a new 
and accordant odor, and dyed the flames that glowed in the lofty 
lamps with a new and accordant stain. The floors bent beneath 
the feet of time-keeping dancers. But twice in the evening 


ADELA CATIICART. 


397 


some of the inmates started, and the pallor occasionally common 
to the household overspread their faces, for they felt under- 
neath them a counter-motion to the dance, as if the floor 
rose slightly to answer their feet. And all the time their 
brother lay below in the dungeon, like John the Baptist in the 
castle of Herod, when the lords and captains sat around, and 
the daughter of Ilerodias danced before them. Outside, all 
around the castle, brooded the dark night unheeded ; for the 
clouds had come up from all sides, and were crowding together 
overhead. In the unfrequent pauses of the music, they might 
have heard, now and then, the gusty rush of a lonely wind, 
coming and going no one could know whence or whither, born 
and dying unexpected and unregarded. 

u But when the festivities were at their height, when the 
external and passing confidence which is produced between su- 
perficial natures by a common pleasure, was at the full, a sud- 
den crash of thunder quelled the music, as the thunder quells 
the noise of the uplifted sea. The windows were driven in, and 
torrents of rain, carried in the folds of a rushing wind, poured 
into the halls. The lights were swept away ; and the great 
rooms, now dark within, were darkened yet more by the daz- 
zling shoots' of flame from the vault of blackness overhead. 
Those that ventured to look out of the windows saw, in the 
blue brilliancy of the quick-following jets of lightning, the 
; lake at the foot of the rock, ordinarily so still and so dark, 
lighted up, not on the surface only, but down to half its depth ; 
so that, as it tossed in the wind, like a tortured sea of writh- 
ing flames, or incandescent, half-molten serpents of brass, they 
■ could not tell whether a strong phosphorescence did not issue 
from the transparent body of the waters, as if earth and sky light- 
ened together, one consenting source of flaming utterance. 

41 Sad was the condition of the late plastic mass of living 
form that had flowed into shape at the will and law of the 
music. Broken into individuals, the common transfusing spirit 
withdrawn, they stood drenched, cold, and benumbed, with cling- 
ing garments; light, order, harmony, purpose, departed and 
chxos restored ; the issuings of life turned back on their sources, 
chilly and dead. And in every heart reigned that falsest of 
despairing convictions that this was the only reality, and 
that was but a dream. The eldest sister stood with clasped 


398 


ADELA CATHCART. 




hands and down-bent head, shivering and speechless, as if 
waiting for something to follow. Nor did she wait long. A : 
terrible flash and thunder-peal made the castle rock ; and in | 
the pausing silence that followed, her quick sense heard .he 
rattling of a chain f ir off, deep down ; and soon the sound of ifj> 
heavy footsteps, accompanied with the clanking of iron, reached ' 
her ear. She felt that her brother was at hand. Even in the jil, 
darkness, and amidst the bellowing of another deep-bosomed | 
cloud- monster, she knew that he had entered the room. A • 
moment after, a continuous pulsation of angry blue light began, i 
which, lasting for some moments, revealed him standing amidst 
them, gaunt, haggard, and motionless ; his hair and beard un- 
trimmed, his face ghastly, his eyes large and hollow. The 
light seemed to gather around him as a centre. Indeed, some j 
believed that it throbbed and radiated from his person, and not 
from the stormy heavens above them. The lightning had rent M 
the wall of his prison, and released the iron staple of his chain, I 
which he had wound about him like a girdle. In his- hand he j i 
carried an iron fetter-bar, which he had found on the floor of j i 
the vault. More terrified at his aspect than at all the violence i * 
of the storm, the visitors, with many a shriek and cry, rushed : 
out into the tempestuous night. By degrees, the storm died h 
away. Its last flash revealed the forms of the brothers and : 
sisters lying prostrate, with their faces on the floor, and that 
fearful shape standing motionless amidst them still. 

11 Morning dawned, and there they lay, and there he stood. ! 
But at a word from him, they arose and went about their vari- : 
ous duties, though listlessly enough. The eldes sister was the last 
to rise; and when she did, it was only by a terrible effort that 
she was able to reach her room, where she fell again on the 
floor. There she remained lying for days. The brother caused j 
the doors of the great suite of rooms to be closed, leaving them 
just as they were, with all the childish adornment scattered j 
about, and the rain still falling in through the shattered win- 
dows. 4 Thus let them lie,’ said he, c till the rain and frost 
have cleansed them of paint and drapery ; no storm can hurt 
the pillars and arches of these halls.’ 

“ The hours of this day went heavily. The storm was gone, 
but the rain was left ; the passion had departed, but the tears 
remained behind. Dull and dark the low, misty clouds brooded 


ADELA CATHCART. 


399 


over the castle and the lake, and shut out all the neighborhood. 
Even if they had climbed to the loftiest known turret, they 
would have found it swathed in a garment of clinging vapor, 
affording no refreshment to the eye, and no hope to the heart. 
There was one lofty tower that rose sheer a hundred feet above 
the rest, and from which the fog could have been seen lying in 
a gray mass beneath ; but that tower they had not yet discov- 
ered, nor another close beside it, the top of which was never 
\ seen, nor could be, for the highest clouds of heaven clustered 
continually around it. The rain fell continuously, though not 
heavily, without; and within, too, there were clouds from 
which dropped the tears which are the rain of the spirit. All 
the good of life seemed for the time departed, and their souls 
lived but as leafless trees that had forgotten the joy of the sum- 
mer, and whom no wind prophetic of spring had yet visited. 
They moved about mechanically, and had not strength enough 
left to wish to die. 

“ The next day the clouds were higher, and a little wind 
blew through such loopholes in the turrets as the false improve- 
ments of the inmates had not yet filled with glass, shutting out, 
as the storm, so the serene visitings of the heavens. Through- 
out the day, the brother took various opportunities of addressing 
a gentle command, now to one, and now to another of his fam- 
ily. It was obeyed in silence. The wind blew fresher through 
the loopholes and the shattered windows of the great rooms, 
and found its way, by unknown passages, to faces and eyes hot 
with weeping. It cooled and blessed them. When the sun 
■ arose the next day, it was in a clear sky. 

“ By degrees, everything fell into the regularity of subor- 
dination. With the subordination came increase of freedom. 
The steps of the more youthful of the family were heard on 
the stairs and in the corridors more light and quick than ever 
before. Their brother had lost the terrors of aspect produced 
by his confinement, and his commands were issued more gently, 
and oftener with a smile, than in all their previous history. 
By degrees, his presence was universally felt through the house. 
It w r as no surprise to any one at his studies, to see him by his 
side, when he lifted up his eyes, though he had not before 
known that he was in the room. And although some dread 
still remained, it was rapidly vanishing before the advances of 


400 


ADELA CATHCART. 


I 

a firm friendship. Without immediately ordering their labors, 
he always influenced them, and often altered their direction 
and objects. The change soon evident in the household was | 
remarkable. A simpler, nobler expression was visible on all 
the countenances. The voices of the men were deeper, and 
yet seemed by their very depth more feminine than before : || 
while the voices of the women were softer and sweeter, and at is 
the same time more full and decided. Now the eyes had often ' 
an expression as if their sight was absorbed in the gaze cf the 
inward eyes ; and when the eyes of two met, there passed be- |1 
tween those eyes the utterance of a conviction that both meant 
the same thing. But the change was, of course, to be seen 
more clearly, though not more evidently, in individuals. 

11 One of the brothers, for instance, was very fond of j 
astronomy. He had his observatory on a lofty tower, which H; 
stood pretty clear of the others, towards the north and east. | 
But, hitherto, his astronomy, as he had called it, had been more \i 
of the character of astrology. Often, too, he might have |> 
been seen directing a heaven-searching telescope to catch the :> 
rapid transit of a fiery shooting-star, belonging altogether to D 
the earthly atmosphere, and not to the serene heavens. He 
had to learn that the signs of the air are not the signs of the I 
skies. Nay, once his brother surprised him in the act of 
examining through his longest tube a patch of burning heath I 
upon a distant hill. But now he was diligent from morning 
till night in the study of the laws of the truth that has to do 
with stars ; and when the curtain of the sunlight was about to ; 
rise from before the heavenly worlds which it had hidden all 
day long, he might be seen preparing his instruments with j 
that solemn countenance with which it becometh one to look j 
into the mysterious harmonies' of Nature. Now he learned i 
what law and order and truth are, what consent and harmony 
mean ; how the individual may find his own end in a higher j 
end, where law and freedom mean the same thing, and the 
purest certainty exists without the slightest constraint. Thus 
lie stood on the earth, and looked to the heavens. 

“ Another, who had been much given to searching out the 
hollow places and recesses in the foundations of the castle, and 
who was often to be found with compass and ruler working 
away at a chart of the same which he had been in process of 


ADELA CATHCART. 


401 


constructing, now came to the conclusion, that only by ascend- 
ing the upper regions of his abode could he become capable 
of understanding what lay beneath ; and that, in all proba- 
bility, one clear prospect, from the top of the highest attain- 
able turret, over the castle as it lay below, would reveal more of 
the idea of its internal construction than a year spent in wander- 
ing through its subterranean vaults. But the fact was, that the 
desire to ascend wakening within him had made him forget 
what was beneath ; and, having laid aside his chart for a time 
at least, he was now to be met in every quarter of the upper 
parts, searching and striving upward, now in one direction, 
now in another; and seeking, as he went, the best outlooks 
into the clear air of outer realities. 

“ And they began to discover that they were all meditating 
different aspects of the same thing ; and they brought together 
their various discoveries, and recognized the likeness between 
them ; and the one thing often explained the other, and com- 
bining with it helped to a third. They grew in consequence 
more and more friendly and loving ; so that every now and 
then one turned to another and said, as in surprise, ‘ Why, you 
are my brother ! ’ — { Why, you are my sister ! ’ And yet 
they had always known it. 

“ The change reached to all. One, who lived on the air of 
sweet sounds, and who was almost always to be found seated 
by her harp or some other instrument, had, till the late storm, 
been generally merry and playful, though sometimes sad. 
But for a long time after that she was often found weeping, 
and playing little, simple airs which she had heard in child- 
hood, — backward longings, followed by fresh tears. Before 
long, however, a new element manifested itself in her music. 
It became yet more wild, and sometimes retained all its 
sadness, but it was mingled with anticipation and hope. The 
past and the future merged in one ; and while memory yet 
brought the rain-cloud, expectation threw the rainbow across 
its bosom; and all was uttered in her music, which rose and 
swelled, now to defiance, now to victory, then died in a 
torrent of weeping. 

“As to the eldest sister, it was many days before she 
recovered from the shock. At length, one day, her brother 
came to her. took her by the hand, led her to an open window, 


402 


A3ELA CATHCART. 


and told her to seat herself by it, and look out. She did so ; 
but at first saw nothing more than an unsympathizing blaze j 
of sunlight. But as she looked, the horizon widened out, and ij 
the dome of the sky ascended, till the grandeur seized upon 1 
her soul, and she fell on her knees and wept. Now the 
heavens seemed to bend lovingly over her, and to stretch out 
wide cloud-arms to embrace her; the earth lay like the bosom 
of an infinite love beneath her, and the wind kissed her cheek i: 
with an odor of roses. She sprang to her feet, and turned, in jf 
an agony of hope, expecting to behold the face of the father ; [s 
but there stood only her brother, looking calmly, though k 
lovingly, on her emotion. She turned again to the window, b 
On the hill-tops rested the sky : heaven and earth were one ; o 
and the prophecy awoke in her soul, that from betwixt them it 
would the steps of the father approach. 

“ Hitherto she had seen but Beauty ; now she beheld truth. 1 
Often had she looked on such clouds as these, and loved the IfJ 
strange ethereal curves into which the winds moulded them; jo 
and had smiled as her little pet sister told her what curious 
animals she saw in them, and tried to point them out to her. | 
Now they were as troops of angels, jubilant over her new Is 
birth, for they sang, in her soul, of beauty, and truth, and n 
love. She looked down, and her little sister knelt beside her. 

“ She was a curious child, with black, glittering eyes and ; 
dark hair, at the mercy of every wandering wind ; a frolic- | i 
some, daring girl, who laughed more than she smiled She S! 
was generally in attendance on her sister, and was always ' 
finding and bringing her strange things. She never pulled a 
primrose, but she knew the haunts of all the orchis tribe, and ‘ 
brought from them bees and butterflies innumerable, as offerings ! ;; 
to her sister. Curious moths and glow-worms were her greatest | 
delight ; and she loved the stars, because they were like the 
glow-worms. But the change had affected her too ; for her 
sister saw that her eyes had lost their glittering look, and had 
become more liquid and transparent. And from that time ! 
she often observed that her gayety was more gentle, her smile 1 
more frequent, her laugh less bell-like ; and although she was 
as wild as ever, there was more elegance in her motions, and 
more music in her voice. And she clung to her sister with far 
greater fondness than before. 


ADELA CATIICART. 


403 


tc The land reposed in the embrace of the warm summer 
days. The clouds of heaven nestled around the towers of the 
castle, and the hearts of its inmates became conscious of a 
warm atmosphere, — of a presence of love. They began to 
feel like the children of a household, when the mother is at 
home. Their faces and forms grew daily more and more 
beautiful, till they wondered as they gazed on each other. 
As they walked in the gardens of the castle, or in the coun j-y 
around, they were often visited, especially the eldest sister, by 
sounds that no one heard but themselves, issuing from woods 
and waters ; and by forms of love that lightened out of 
flowers, and grass, and great rocks. Now and then the young 
children would come in with a slow, stately step, and, with 
great eyes that looked as if they would devour all the creation, 
say that they had met the father amongst the trees, and that 
he had kissed them ; ‘ and,’ added one of them once, ‘ I grew 
so big ! ’ and when others went out to look they could see no 
one. And some said it must have been the brother, who grew 
more and more beautiful, and loving, and reverend, and who 
had lost all traces of hardness, so that they wondered they 
could ever have thought him stern and harsh. But the eldest 
sister held her peace, and looked up, and her eyes filled with 
tears. ‘Who can tell,’ thought she, ‘but the little children 
know more about it than we ? ’ 

“ Often, at sunrise, might be heaj-d their hymn of praise to 
their unseen father, whom they felt to be near, though they 
saw him not. Some words thereof once reached my ear 
through the folds of the music in which they floated, as in an 
upward snow-storm of sweet sounds. And these are some of 
the words I heard ; but there was much I seemed to hear, 
which I could not understand, and some things which I under- 
stood, but cannot utter again : — 

“ ‘ We thank thee that we have a father, and not a maker; 
that thou hast begotten us, and not moulded us as images of 
clay ; that we have come forth of thy heart, and have not been 
fashioned by thy hands. It must be so. Only the heart of 
a father is able to create. We rejoice in it, and bless thee that 
we know it. We thank thee for thyself. Be what thou art, — 
our root and life, our beginning and end, our all in all. Come 


404 


ADELA CATHCART. 


home to us. Thou livest ; therefore we live. In thy light 
we see. Thou art, — that is all our song.’ 

“ Thus they worship, and love, and wait. Their hope and j 
expectation grow ever stronger and brighter, that one day, ere 
long, the Father will show himself amongst them, and thence- 
forth dwell in his own house for evermore. What was once but 
an old legend has become the one desire of their hearts. 

“And the loftiest hope is the surest of being fulfilled.” 

“Thank you, heartily,” said the curate. “ I will choose 
another time to tell you how much I have enjoyed your parable, j, 
which is altogether to my mind, and far beyond anything I 
could do.” 

Mr. Bloomfield returned no answer, but his countenance j 
showed that he was far from hearing this praise unmoved. 
The faces of the rest showed that they, too, had listened with il 
pleasure ; and Adela’ s face shone as if she had received more j 
than delight, — hope, namely, and onward impulse. The | 
colonel alone — I forgot to say that Mrs. Cathcart had a j, 
headache, and did not come — seemed to have been left j; 
behind. 

“I am a stupid old fellow, I believe,” said he ; “ but, to tell 
the truth, I did not know what to make of it. It seemed all |l 
the time to be telling me in one breath something I knew, and li 
something I didn’t and couldn't know. I wish I could express , 
what I mean, but it puzzled me too much for that ; although j: 
every now and then it sounded very beautiful indeed.” 

“ I will try and tell you what it said to me, some time, papa,” 
said Adela. 

“ Thank you, my child ; I should much like to understand i 
it. I believe I have done my duty by my king and country, 
but a man has to learn a good deal after all that is over and ; 
done with ; and I suppose it is never too late to begin, Mr. ' 
Armstrong? ” 

“ On the contrary, I not merely believe that no future time 
can be so good as the present, but I am inclined to assert that 
no past time could have been so good as the present. This j 
seems to be a paradox, but I think I could explain it very ' 
easily. I find, however, that the ladies are looking as if they ; 
wanted to go home, and I am quite ready, Mrs. Armstrong. 


4DELA CATHCART. 


405 


But while the ladies put their bonnets on, just let Smith see 
your school-room, Mr. Bloomfield. As an inhabitant of Purley- 
bridge, I already begin to be proud of it.” 

The ladies did go to put on their bonnets. I followed Mr. 
Bloomfield and the colonel into the school-room, and the curate 
followed me. But after we had looked about us and remarked 
on the things about for five minutes, finding I had le ft my 
handkerchief in the drawing-room, I went back to fetch it. 
The door was open, and I saw Adela — no bonnet on her head 
yet — standing face to face with Harry. They were alone. I 
hesitated for a moment what I should do, and while I hesitated 
I could not help seeing the arm of the doctor curved and half- 
outstretched, as if it would gladly have folded about her, and 
his face droop and droop, till it could not have been more than 
half a foot from hers. Now, as far as my seeing this was con- 
cerned, there was no harm done. But behind me came the 
curate and the school-master, and they had eyes in their heads, 
at least equal to mine. Well, no great harm yet. And just 
far enough down the stair to see into the drawing-room, ap- 
peared their wives, who pculd not fail to see the unconscious 
pair, at least as well as we men below. Still there was no 
great harm done, for Mrs. Cathcart was at home, as I have 
said. But, horresco ref evens ! — excuse the recondite quotation 
— at the same moment the form of the colonel appeared, looking 
over the heads of all before him right in at the drawing-room 
door, and full at the young sinners, who had heard no sound 
along the matted passage. 

“ Here’s a go ! ” said I to myself, — not aloud, observe, for 
it was slang. 

For just think of a man like Harry caught thus in a perfect 
trap of converging looks. 

As if from a sudden feeling of hostile presence, he glanced 
round — and stood erect. The poor fellow’s face at once flushed 
as red as shame could make it ; but he neither lost his self- 
possession, nor sought to escape under cover of a useless pre- 
tence. He turned to the colonel. 

“ Colonel Cathcart,” he said, “ I will choose a more suit 
able time to make my apology. I wish you good-night. ’ 

He bowed to us all, not choosing to risk a refusal of hii 
hand by the colonel, and went quickly out of the house. 


406 


ADELA CATHCA RT. 


The colonel stood for some seconds, which felt to me like 
minutes, as if he had just mounted guard at the drawing- 
room door. His face was perfectly expressionless. We men 
felt very much like stale oysters, and would rather have skipped 
that same portion of our inevitable existence. What the 
ladies felt. I do not pretend, being an old bachelor, to divine. 

Adela, pale as death, fled up the stair. The only thing left 
for the rest of us was to act as much as possible as if nothing 
were the matter, and get out of the way before the poor girl 
came down again. As soon as I got home, I went to my own 
room, and thus avoided the tete-a-tete with my host which gen- 
erally closed our evenings. 

The colonel went up to his daughter’s room, and remained 
there for nearly an hour. Adela was not at the breakfast- 
table the next morning. Her father looked very gloomy, and 
Mrs. Cathcart grimly satisfied, with I told you so written on 
her face as plainly as I have now written it on the paper. How 
she came to know anything about it, I can only conjecture. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

WHAT NEXT? 

Harry called early, and was informed that the colonel was 
not at home. 

“ Something’s the matter, Mr. Armstrong,” said Beeves. 
“ Master’s not at home to you to-day, he says, nor any other 
day till he countermands the order, — that was the word, sir. 
I’m sure I am very sorry, sir.” 

“So am I,” said Harry. “ How’s your mistress? ” 

“ Haven’t seen her to-day ; sir. Emma says she’s poorly. 
But she is down. Emma looks as if she knew something and 
wouldn’t tell it. I’ll get it out of her though, sir. We’ll be 
having that old Wade coming about the house again, I’m afeard, 
sir. He's no good.” 

“ At all events you will let your master know that I have 


ADELA CATIICART. 


407 


called,” said Harry, as he turned, disconsolately, to take hi? 
departure. 

u That I will, sir. And I’ll be sure he hears me. He’s 
rather deaf, sometimes, you know, sir.” 

“ Thank you, Beeves. Good-morning. 

Now what could have been Harry’s intention in calling upon 
the colonel ? Why, as he had .said himself, to make an apology. 
But what kind of apology could he make ? Clearly there was 
only one that would satisfy all parties ; and that must be in 
the form of a request to be allowed to pay his addresses — (that 
used to be the phrase in my time ; I don’t know the young 
ladies’ slang for it nowadays) — to Adela. Did I say — 
satisfy all parties? This was just the one form affairs might 
take, which would least of all satisfy the colonel. I believe, 
with all his rigid proprieties, he would have preferred the 
confession that the doctor had so far forgotten himself as to 
attempt to snatch a kiss, — a theft of which I cannot imagine 
a gentleman guilty, least of all a doctor from his patient; 
which relation no doubt the colonel persisted in regarding as 
the sole possible and everlastingly permanent one between 
Adela and Harry. The former was, however, the only apology 
Harry could make ; and evidently the colonel expected it when 
he refused to see him. 

But why should he refuse to see him ? The doctor was not 
on an equality with the colonel. Well, to borrow a form from 
the Shorter Catechism : Wherein consisted the difference be- 
tween the colonel and the doctor ? The difference between 
the colonel and the doctor consisted chiefly in this, that 
whereas the colonel lived by the wits of his ancestors, Harry 
lived by his own, and therefore was not so respectable as the 
colonel. Or, in other words : the colonel inherited a good 
estate, with the ordinary quantity of brains; while Harry 
inherited a good education, and an extraordinary quantity of 
brains. So of course it was very presumptuous in Harry to 
aspire to the hand of Miss Cathcart 

In the forenoon the curate called upon me, and was shown 
into the library where I was. 

“ What’s that scapegrace brother of mine been doing, Smith 
he asked, the moment he entered. 

“ Wanting to marry Adel^,” I replied. 

“ What has he doqe ? ” 


408 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ Called this morning.” 

“ And seen Colonel Cathcart? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Not at home ? ” 

“In a social sense, not at home; in a moral sense, very far 
from at home ; in a natural sense, seated in his own arm-chair, 
with his own work, on the Peninsular War, open on the table 
before him.” 

“ Wouldn’t see him ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ What’s he to do, then ? ” 

“ I think we had better leave that to him. Harry is not the 
man I take him for if he doesn’t know his own way better than 
you or I can tell him.” 

“ You’re right, Smith. How’s Miss Cathcart? ” 

“ I have never seen her so well. Certainly she did not come 
down to breakfast ; but I believe that was merely from shyness. 
She appeared in the dining-room directly after, and, although 
it was evident she had been crying, her step was as light, and 
her color as fresh, as her lover even could wish to see them.” 

“ Then she is not without hope in the matter ? ” 

“If she loves him, and I think she does, she is not without 
hope. But I do not think the fact of her looking well would 
be sufficient to prove that. For some mental troubles will fa- 
vor the return of bodily health. They will at least give one 
an interest in life.” 

“ Then you think her father has given in a little about it? ” 

“ I don’t believe it. If her illness and she were both of an 
ordinary kind, she would gain her point now by taking to her 
bed. But, from what I know of Adela, she would scorn and 
resist that.” 

“ Well, we must let matters take their course. Harry is 
worthy of the best wife in Christendom.” 

“ I believe it. And more, if Adela will make that best 
wife, I think he will have the best wife. But we must have pa- 
tience.” 

Next morning, a letter arrived from Harry to the colonel. I 
have seen it, and it was to this effect : — 

“ My dear Sir : — As you will not see me, I am forced to 


ADELA CATHCART. 


409 


write to you. Let my earnest entreaty to be allowed to ad- 
dress your daughter cover, if it cannot make up for, my inad- 
vertence of the other evening. I am very sorry I have 
offended you. If you will receive me, I trust you will not find 
it hard to forget. Yours, etc.” 

To this the colonel replied : — 

u Sir : — It is at least useless, if not worse, to apply for 
an ex post facto permission. What I might have answered, 
had the courtesies of society been observed, it may be easy for 
me to determine, but it is useless now to repeat. Allow me to 
say, that I consider such behavior of a medical practitioner 
towards a young lady, his patient, altogether unworthy of a 
gentleman, as every member of a learned profession is sup- 
posed to be. I have the honor, etc.” 

I returned the curate’s call, and while we were sitting in 
his study, in walked Harry with a rather rueful countenance. 

“ What do you say to that, Ralph? ” said he, handing his 
brother the letter. 

“ Cool,” replied Ralph. “But Harry, my boy, you have 
given him quite the upper hand of you. How could you be 
so foolish as kiss the girl there and then ? ” 

“ I didn’t,” said Harry. 

“ But you did just as bad. You were going to do it.” 

“ I don’t think I was. But somehow those great eyes of 
hers kept pulling and pulling my head, so that I don t know 
what I was going to do. I remember nothing but her eyes. 
Suddenly a scared look in them startled mo, and I saw it all. 
Mr. Smith, was it so very dishonorable of me?” 

“You are the best judge of that yourself, Harry,” I an- 
Bwered. “Just let me look at the note.” 

I read it, folded it up carefully, and, returning it, said : — 

“ Pie’s given you a good hold of him there. It is really 
too bad of Cathcart, being a downright good fellow, to forget 
that he ran away with Mis3 Selby, old Sir George, the baro- 
net’s daughter. Neither of them ever repented it; though he 
was only° Captain Cathcart then, in a regiment of foot too. 
and was not even next heir to the property he has now.” 


410 


ADELA CATIICA11T. 


“ Hurrah ! ” cried Harry. 

“Stop, stop. That doesn’t make it a bit better,” said hia 
brother. “ I suppose you mean to argue with him on that j 
ground, do you ? ” 

“ No, I don’t. I’m not such a fool. But if I should be : 
forced to run away with her, he can’t complain, you know.” 

“No, no, Harry, my boy,” said I. “That won’t do. It 
would break the old man’s heart. You must have patience ' 
for a while.” 

“ Yes, yes. I know what I mean to do.” 

“What?” 

“ When I’ve made up my mind, I never ask advice. It 
only bewilders a fellow.” 

“ Quite right, Hal,” said his brother. “ Only don’t do any- 
thing foolish.” 

“ I won’t do anything she doesn’t like.” 

“ No, nor anything you won’t like yourself afterwards,” I 
ventured to say. 

“ I hope not,” returned he, gravely, as he walked out. too ij 
much absorbed to bid either of us good-morning. 

It was now more than time that I should return to town ; ; | 
but I could not leave affairs in this unsatisfactory state. I 
therefore lingered on to see what would come next. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

GENERALSHIP. 

The next day Harry called again. 

“ Master ’aint countermanded the order, doctor. He aint !. 
at home, — not a bit of it. He ’aint been out of the house 
since that night.” 

“ Well, is Miss Cathcart at home? ” 

“ She’s said nothing to the contrairy, sir. I believe she is • 
at home. I know she’s out in the garding, — on the terridge.” , 

And old Beeves held the door wide open, as if to say, 

“ Don’t stop to ask any questions, but step into the garden.” ! 
Which Harry did. 


ADELA CATIICART. 


411 


There was a high gravel terrace along one end of it, always 
dry and sunny when there was any sun going ; and there she 
was, overlooked by the windows of her papa’s room. 

Now I do not know anything that passed upon that terrace. 
How should I know? Neither of them was likely to tell old 
Smith. And I wonder at the clumsiness of novelists in pre- 
tending to reveal all that he said, and all that she answered. 
But if I were such a clumsy novelist, I should like to invent it 
all, and see if I couldn’t make you believe every word of it. 

This is what I would invent : — 

The moment Adela caught sight of Harry, she cast one 
frightened glance up to her father’s windows, and stood waiting. 
He lifted his hat, and held out his hand. She took it. Neither 
spoke. They turned together and walked along the terrace. 

“lam very sorry,” said Harry at last. 

“Are you? What for?” 

“ Because I got you into a scrape.” 

“ Oh ! I don’t care.” 

“ Don’t you ? ” 

“ No ; not a bit.” 

“ I didn’t mean it.” 

“ What didn’t you mean ? ” 

“ It did look like it, I know.” 

“ Look like what? ” 

“ Adela, you’ll drive me crazy. It was all your fault.” 

“ So I told papa, and he was angrier than ever.” 

“ You angel ! It wasn’t your fault. It was your eyes. I 
couldn’t help it. Adela, I love you dreadfully.” 

“ I’m so glad.” 

She gave a sigh as of relief. 

“Why?” 

“ Because 1 wished you would. But I don’t deserve it. A 
great clever man like you, love a useless girl like me ! I am 
so glad ! ” 

“ But your papa ? ” 

“ I’m so happy I can’t think about him steadily just yet. 

“ Adela, I love you — so dearly ! Only I am too old foi 
you.” 

“Old! How old are you ? ” 

“ Nearly thirty.” 


412 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“ And I’m only one-and-twenty. You’re worth one and a 
half of me, — yes, twenty of me.” 

And so their lips played with the ripples of love, while their 
hearts were heaving with the ground swell of its tempest. 

Now what I do know about is this : — 

The colonel came downstairs in his dressing-gown and slip- 
pers, and found Beeves flattening his nose against the glass of 
the garden-door. 

“ Beeves ! ” said the colonel. 

“Sir!” said Beeves, darting round and confronting his 
master with a face purple and pale from the sense of utter 
unpreparedness. 

“ Beeves, where is your mistress? ” 

“ My mistress, sir? I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure, sir! 
How should I know, sir? I ’aint let her out. Shall I run 
upstairs and see if she is in her room? ” 

“ Open the door.” 

Beeves laid violent hold upon the handle of the door, and 
pulled and twisted, but always took care to pull before he twisted. 

“ I declare if that stupid Ann ’aint been and locked it. It 
aint nice in the garden to day, sir, — leastways without 
goloshes,” added he, looking down at his master’s slippers. 

Now the colonel understood Beeves, and Beeves knew that 
he understood him. But Beeves knew likewise that the colonel 
would not give in to the possibility of his servant’s taking such 
liberties with him. 

“Never mind,” said the colonel; “ I will go the other 
way.” 

The moment he was out of sight, Beeves opened the garden- 
door, and began gesticulating like a madman, fully persuaded 
that the doctor would make his escape. But so far from being 
prepared to run away, Harry had come there with the express 
intention of forcing a conference. So that when the colonel 
made his appearance on the terrace, the culprits walked slowly 
towards him. He went to meet them with long military strides, 
and was the first to speak. 

“Mr. Armstrong, to what am I to attribute this intru- 
sion? ” 

“ Chiefly to the desire of seeing you, Colonel Cathcart.” 

“ And I find you with my daughter ! — Adela, go in-doors.” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


413 


Adela withdrew at once. 

“ You denied yourself, and I inquired for Miss Cathcarfc, ,, 

11 You will oblige me by not calling again.” 

“ Surely I have committed no fault beyond forgiveness.” 

“ You have taken advantage of your admission into my family 
to entrap the affections of my daughter.” 

“ Colonel Cathcart, as far as my conscience tells me, I have 
not behaved unworthily.” 

“ Sir. is it not unworthy of a gentleman to use such pro- 
fessional advantages to gain the favor of one who — you will 
excuse me for reminding you of what you will not allow me 
to forget — is as much above him in social position as inferior 
to him in years and experience.” 

“ Is it always unworthy in a gentleman to aspire to a lady 
above him in social position, Colonel Cathcart? ” 

The honesty of the colonel checked all reply to this home- 
thrust. 

Harry resumed : — 

“ At least I am able to maintain my wife in what may be 
considered comfort.” 

“ Your wife!” exclaimed the colonel, his anger blazing 
out at the word. “ If you use that expression with any pro- 
spective reference to Miss Cathcart, I am master enough in my 
own family to insure you full possession of the presumption. I 
wish you good morning.” 

The angry man of war turned on his slippered heel, and was 
striding away. 

“ One word, I beg,” said Harry. 

The colonel had too much courtesy in his nature not to stop 
and turn half towards the speaker. 

(C I beg to assure you,” said Harry, 11 that I shall continue 
to cherish the hope that after-thoughts will present my conduct, 
as well as myself, in a more favorable light to Colonel Cath- 
cart.” 

And he lifted his hat, and walked away by the gate. 

“ By Jove!” said the colonel to himself, notwithstanding 
the rage he was in, “ the fellow can express himself like a 
gentleman, anyhow.” 

And so he went back to his room, where I heard him pacing 
about for hours. I believe he found that his better self was 


414 


ADELA CATHCART. 


not to be so easily put down as he had supposed ; and that that 
better self sided with Adela and Harry. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

AN UNFORESEEN FORESIGHT. 

What else is a Providence? 

Harry went about his work as usual, only with a graver 
face. 

Adela looked very sad, but without any of her old helpless 1 
and hopeless air. Her health was quite established ; and she jtl 
now returned all the attention her father had paid to her. For- ; 
tunately Mrs. Cathcart had gone home. 

“ Cunning puss ! ” some of my readers may say ; “ she was I 
trying to coax the old man out of his resolution. ” But such | 
a notion would be quite unjust to my niece. She was more in 1 
danger of going to the other extreme, to avoid hypocrisy. But .ii 
she had the divine gift of knowing what any one she loved was ifl 
feeling and thinking ; and she knew that her father was suffer- 9 
ing, and all about it. The old man’s pace grew heavier ; the 
lines about his mouth grew deeper ; he sat at table without |j 
speaking ; he ate very little, and drank more wine. Adela’s |] 
eyes followed his every action. I could see that sometimes she 
was ready to rise and throw her arms about him. Often I saw in ; i 
her lovely eyes that peculiar clearness of the atmosphere which U 
indicates the nearness of rain. And once or twice she rose and ij 
left the room, as if to save her from an otherwise unavoidable i 
exposure of her feelings. 

The gloom fell upon the servants too. Beeves waited in a 
leaden-handed way, that showed he was determined to do his !; 
duty, although it should bring small pleasure with it. He 
took every opportunity of unburdening his bosom to me. 

“It’s just like when mis’ess died,” said he. ‘‘The very 
cocks walk about the yard as if they had hearse-plumes in 
their tails. Everybody looks ready to hang hisself, except 
you-, Mr. Smith. And that’s a comfort.” 


ADELA CATHCART. 


415 


The fact was, that I had very little doubt as to how it 
would all end. But I would not interfere ; for I saw that it 
would be much better for the colonel’s heart and conscience to 
right themselves, than that he should be persuaded to any- 
thing. It was very hard for him. He had led his regiment 
to victory and glory ; he had charged and captured many a 
gun ; he had driven the enemy out of many a boldly defended 
entrenchment ; and was it not hard that he could not drive the 
eidolon of a country surgeon out of the bosom of his little 
girl ? (It was hard that he could not ; but it would have been 
a deal harder if he could.) He had nursed and loved, and 
petted and spoiled her. And she would care for a man whom 
he disliked ! 

But here the old man was mistaken. He did not dislike 
Harry Armstrong. He admired and honored him. He almost 
loved him for his gallant devotion to his duty. He would 
have been proud of him for a son — but not for a son-in-law. 
He would not have minded adopting him, or doing anything 
but giving him Adela. There was a great deal of pride left in the 
old soldier, and that must be taken out of him. We shall 
all have to thank God for the whip of scorpions which, if 
needful, will do its part to drive us into the kingdom of 
heaven. 

11 How happy the dear old man will be,” I said to myself, 
“ when he just yields this last castle of selfishness, and walks 
unhoused into the new childhood of which God takes care ! ” 

And this end came .sooner than I had looked for it. 

I had made up my mind that it would be better for me to 
go. 

When I told Adela that I must go, she gave me a look in 
which lay the whole story in light and in tears. I answered with 
a pressure of her hand and an old uncle’s kiss. But no word 
was spoken on the subject. 

I had a final cigar with the curate, and another with the 
school-master ; bade them and their wives good-by ; told 
them all would come right if we only had patience, and then 
went to Harry. But he was in the country, and I thought 
I should not see him again. 

AVith the assistance of good Beeves, I got my portmanteau 
packed that night. I was going to start about ten o clock 


416 


ADELA CATHCART, 


next morning. It was long before I got to sleep, I heard 
the step of the colonel, whose room was below mine on the 
drawing-room floor, going up and down, up and down, all the 3 
time, till slumber came at last, and muffled me up. We met 
at breakfast, a party lugubrious enough. Beeves waited like 
a mute ; the colonel ate his breakfast like an offended parent ; • 
Adela trifled with hers like one who had other things to think 
about ; and I ate mine like a parting guest who was being any- i 
thing but sped. When the post-bag was brought in, the colonel j 
unlocked it mechanically ; distributed the letters ; opened one [ 
with indifference, read a few lines, and with a groan fell back 
in his chair. We started up, and laid him on the sofa. With 
the privilege of an old friend, I glanced at the letter, and 
found that a certain speculation in which the colonel had ven- 
tured largely had utterly failed. I told Adela enough to 
satisfy her as to the nature of the misfortune. We feared ; 
apoplexy, but before we could send for any medical man he 
opened his eyes and called Adela. He clasped her to his 
bosom, and then tried to rise, but fell back helpless. 

“ Shall we send for Dr. Wade ? ” said Adela, trembling and j 
pale as death. 

“Dr. Wade!” faltered the old man, with a perceptible 
accent of scorn 

“ Which shall we send for? ” I said. 

“How can you ask?” he answered, feebly. “Harry 
Armstrong, of course.” 

The blood rushed into Adela’s white face, and Beeves 
rushed out of the room. In a quarter of an hour, Harry 
was with us. Adela had retired. He made a few inquiries, 
administered some medicine he had brought with him, and, 
giving orders that he should not be disturbed for a couple of 
hours, left him with the injunction to keep perfectly quiet. 

“Take my traps up to my room again, Beeves; and tell the 
coachman he won’t be wanted this morning.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Beeves. “ I don’t know what we j 
should do without you, sir.” 

When Harry returned, we carried the colonel up to his own 
room, and Beeves got him to bed. I said something about a 
nurse, but Harry said there was no one so fit to nurse him as 
Adela The poor man had never been ill before; and I dare 


ADELA CATIICART. 


417 


say he would have been very rebellious, had he not had a 
great trouble at his heart to quiet him. He was as submissive 
as could be desired. 

I felt sure he would be better as soon as he had told Adela. 
I gave Harry a hint of the matter, and he looked very much as 
if he would shout “ Oh, jolly ! ” but he did not. 

Towards the evening, the colonel called his daughter to his 
bedside, and said : — 

“ Addie, darling, I have hurt you dreadfully.” 

“Oh, no, dear papa; you have not. And it is so easy to 
put it all right, you know,” she added, turning her head away 
a little. 

“No, my child,” he said, in a tone full of self-reproach, 
“ nobody can put it right. I have made us both beggars, 
Addie, my love.” 

“ Well, dearest papa, you can bear a little poverty surely ? ” 

“It’s not of myself I am thinking, my darling. Don’t 
do me that injustice, or I shall behave like a fool. It’s only 
you I am thinking of.” 

“ Oh, is that all, papa? Do you know that, if it were not 
for your sake, I could sing a song about it? ” 

“ Ah ! you don’t know what you make so light of. Poverty 
is not so easy to endure.” 

“Papa,” said Adela, solemnly, “if you knew how awful 
things looked to me a little while ago, — but it’s all gone 
now ! — the whole earth black and frozen to the heart, with no 
God in it, and nothing worth living for, — you would not 
wonder that I take the prospect of poverty with absolute 
indifference, — yes, if you will believe me, with something of 
a strange excitement. There will be something to battle with 
and beat.” 

And she stretched out a strong, beautiful white arm, 
from which the loose open sleeve fell back, as if with that 
weapon of might she w r ould strike poverty to the earth ; but 
it was only to adjust the pillow which had slipped sideways 
from the loved head. 

“ But Mr. Armstrong will not want to marry you now, 
Addie.” 

“ Oh, won’t he? ” thought Adela; or at least I think she 
thought so. But she said, rather demurely, and very shyly : — 


418 


ADELA CATIICART. 


“ But ;hat won’t be any worse than it was before; for yon 
would never have let me marry him anyhow.” 

“ Oh, yes, I would, in time, Adela. I am not such a 
brute as you take me for.” 

“ 0 you dear, darling papa ! ” cried the poor child, and 
burst into tears, with her head on her father’s bosom. And : 
he began comforting her so sweetly, that you would have 
thought she had lost everything, and he was going to give her n 
jill back again. 

“Papa! papa!” she cried, “I will work for you; I will i 
be your servant ; I will love you and love you to all eternity. . 
[ won’t leave you. I won’t indeed. What does it matter for 
the money ? ” 

At this moment the doctor entered. 

“Ah!” he said, “this won’t do at all. I thought you 
would have made a better nurse, Miss Adela. There you are, r 
doth crying together ! ” 

“Indeed, Mr. Henry,” said Adela, rather comically, “it’s 
lot my fault. He would cry.” 

And as she spoke she wiped away her own tears. 

“But he’s looking much better, after all,” said Harry. ] 
“Allow me to feel your pulse.” 

The patient was pronounced much better ; fresh orders were 
given, and Harry took his leave. 

But Adela felt vexed. She did not consider that he knew , 
nothing of what had passed between her father and her. To II 
the warm fireside of her knowledge he came in wintry and i* 
cold. Of course it would never do for the doctor to aggravate |i 
his patient’s symptoms by making love to his daughter ; but j| 
ought he not to have seen that it was all right between them | 
now ? How often we feel and act as if our mood where the at- | 
mosphere of the world ! It may be a cold frost within us |i 
when our friend is in the glow of a summer sunset ; and we j 
call him unsympathetic and unfeeling. If we let him know 
the state of our world, we should see the rose-hues fade from i 
his, and our friend put off his singing robes, and sit down with 
us in sackcloth and ashes, to share our temptation and grief. 

“ You see I cannot offer you to him now, Adela,” said her 
father. 


ADELA CATIICART. 


419 


“No, papa.” 

But I knew that all had come right, although 1 saw from 
Adela’s manner that she was not happy about it. 

So things went on for a week, during which the colonel was 
slowly mending. I used to read him to sleep. Adela would 
sit by the fire, or by the bedside, and go and come while I was 
reading. 

One afternoon, in the twilight, Harry entered. We greeted, 
and then, turning to the bed, I discovered that my friend was 
asleep. We drew towards the fire, and sat down. Adela had 
gone out of the room a few minutes before. 

“ He is such a manageable patient ! ” I said. 

“ Noble old fellow ! ” returned the doctor. “ I wish he would 
like me, and then all would be well.” 

“ He doesn’t dislike you personally,” I said. 

“ I hope not. I can understand his displeasure perfectly, 
and repugnance too. But I assure you, Mr. Smith, I did 
not lay myself out to gain her affections. I was caught my- 
self before I knew. And I believe she liked me, too, before she 
knew.” 

“ I fear their means will be very limited after this.” 

“ For his sake I am very sorry to hear it; but, for my own, 
I cannot help thinking it the luckiest thing that could have 
happened.” 

“Iam not so sure of that. It might increase the difficulty.” 

At this moment I thought I heard the handle of the door 
move, but there was a screen between us and it. I went 
on. 

“ That is, if you still want to marry her, you know.” 

“Marry her!” he said. “If she were a beggar-maid, I 
would be proud as King Cophetua, co marry her to-morrow.” 

There was a rustle in the twilight, and a motion of its gloom. 
With a quick gliding, Adela drew near, knelt beside Harry, 
and hid her eyes on his knee. I thought it better to go. 

Was this unmaidenly of her ? 

I say “No, for she knew that he loved her.” 

As I left the room, I heard the colonel call : — r 

“ Adela.” 

And when I returned, I found X\\eu\ both standing by th« 
bedside, and the old man bolding a hand of each. 


420 


ADELA CATHCART. 


“Now, John Smith,” I said to myself, 1 you may go when 

you please.” 

Before we, that is, I and my reader, part, however, my reader 
may be inclined to address me thus : — 

“Pray, Mr. Smith, do you think it was your wonderful 
prescription of story-telling that wrought Miss Cathcart’s 
cure ? ” 

“ How can I tell ? ” I answer. “ Probably it had its share. 
But there were other things to take into the account. If you 
went on to ask me whether it was not Harry’s prescriptions ; 
or whether it was not the curate’s sermons ; or whether it was 
not her falling in love with the doctor; or whether even her 
father’s illness and the loss of their property had not some- 
thing to do with it ; or whether it was not the doctor’s falling 
in love with her ; or that the cold weather suited her, — I should 
reply in the same way to every one of the interrogatories.” 

But I retort another question : — 

“Did you ever know anything whatever resulting from the 
operation of one separable cause? ” 

In regard to any good attempt I have ever made in my life, 
I am content to know that the end has been gained. Whether 
I have succeeded or not is of no consequence, if I have tried 
well. In the present case, Adela recovered ; and my own con- 
viction is that the cure was effected mainly from within. Ex- 
cept in physics, we can put nothing to the experimentum cru - 
cis , and must be content with conjecture and probability. 

The night before I left I had a strange dream. I stood in 
a lonely cemetery in a pine forest. Dark trees, that never shed 
their foliage, rose all around, — strange trees that mourn for- 
ever, because they never die. The dreamlight that has no 
visible source, because it is in the soul that dreams, showed all 
in a dim blue-gray dawn, that never grew clearer. The night 
wind was the only power abroad save myself. It went with 
slow, intermitting, sigh-like gusts, through the tops of the 
dreaming trees ; for the trees seemed, in the midst of my dream, 
to have dreams of their own. 

Now this burial-place was mine. I had tended it foi years. 
In it lay all the men and women whom I had honored and loved. 

Aud I was a great sculptor. And over every grave I had 


ADELA CATHCART. 


421 


placed a marble altar, and upon every altar the marble bust 
of the man or woman who lay beneath ; each in the supreme 
beauty which all the defects of birth, and of time, and of in- 
completeness could not hide from the eye of tne prophetic sculps 
tor. Each was like a half-risen glorified form of the being who 
had there descended into the realms of Hades. And . through 
these glimmering rows of the dead I walked in the dreamlight ; 
and from one to another I went in the glory of having known 
and loved them ; now weeping sad tears over the loss of the 
beautiful ; now rejoicing in the strength of the mighty ; now 
exulting in the love and truth which would yet dawn upon me 
w r hen I, too, should go down beneath the visible, and emerge in 
the realms of the actual and the unseen. All the time I was 
sensible of a wondrous elevation of being, a glory of life and 
feeling hitherto unknown to me. 

I had entered the secret places of my own hidden world by 
the gate of sleep, and walked about them in my dream. 

Gradually I became aware that a foreign sound was min- 
gling with the sighing of the tree-tops overhead. It grew and 
grew, till I recognized the sound of wheels, — not of heavenly 
chariots, but of earthly motion and business. I heard them 
stop at the lofty gates of my holy place, and by twos and 
threes, or in solitary singleness, came people into my garden 
of the dead. And who should they be but the buried ones? 
— all those whose marble busts ^tood in ghostly silence, with- 
in the shadows of the everlasting pines. And they talked, 
and laughed, and jested. And my city of the dead melted 
away. And lo ! we stood in the midst of a great market-place ; 
and I knew it to be the market-place in which the children 
had sat, who said to the other children : — 

“ We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced; we 
have mourned unto you, and ye have not lamented.” 

And to my misery, I saw that the faces of my fathers and 
brothers, my mothers and sisters, had not grown nobler in the 
country of the dead, in which I had thought them safe and 
shining. Cares, as of this world, had so Settled upon them, 
that I°could hardly recognize the old likeness ; and the dim 
forms of the ideal glory, which I had reproduced in my mar- 
ble busts, had vanished altogether. Ah me ! my world of the 


422 


ADELA CATIICART. 


dead ! my city of treasures, hid away under the locks and bars 
of the unchangeable! Was there then no world of realities? 
. — only a Vanity Fair, after all? The glorious women went 
sweeping about, smiling and talking, and buying and adorning, 
but they were glorious no longer ; for they had common thoughts, 
and common beauties, and common language, and aims, and 
hopes ; and everything was common about them. And ever 
and anon, with a kind of shiver, as if to keep alive my misery 
by the sight of my own dreams, the marble busts would glim- 
mer out, faintly visible amidst the fair, as if about to reap- 
pear, and, dispossessing the vacuity of folly, assert the n( ble 
and the true, and give me back my dead to love and worship 
once more, in the loneliness of the pine-forest. Side by side 
with a greedy human face would shimmer out for a moment the 
ghostly marble face ; and the contrast all but drove me mad 
with perplexity and misery. 

“Alas!” I cried, “where is my future? Where is my 
beautiful death ? ” 

All at once I saw the face of a man who went round and 
round the skirts of the market, and looked earnestly in amongst 
the busy idlers. He was head and shoulders taller than any 
there ; and his face was a pale face, with an infinite future in 
it, visible in all its grief. I made my way through the crowd, 
which regarded me with a look which I could not understand, 
and came to the stranger. I threw myself at his feet and 
sobbed: “I have lost them all. I will follow thee.” He 
took me by the hand, and led me back. We walked up and 
down the fair together. And as we walked, the tumult lessened 
and lessened. They made a path for us to go, and all eyes 
were turned upon my guide. The tumult sank, and all was 
still. Men and women stood in silent rows. My guide looked 
upon them all, on the right and on the left. And they all 
looked on him till their eyes filled with tears. And the old 
faces of my friends grew slowly out of the worldly faces, until 
at length they were such as I had known of yore. 

Suddenly they all fell upon their knees, and their faces 
changed into the likeness of my marble faces. Then my guide 
waved his hand — and lo ! we were in the midst of my garden 
of the dead ; and the wind was like the sound of a going in 






ADELA CATHCART. 


423 


the tops of the pine trees ; and my white marbles glimmered, 
glorified on the altars of the tombs. And the dream vanished, 
and I came awake. 

And I will not say here, whose face the face of my guide 
was like 


THE EHD. 















o, „0 




°- -““ ^0 *$► *•,*• o + 0 * 0 ° ,Cr 



^ .t 


**' /J9 


A^ 0 0 " 0 * <^s 

,N <i '^nSmYIY^l* ry 



r * av 

. .»* <0 V O- '".A A <. *< 

0^ t • 1 ' ' * ^o c 0 * 0 * <£>> 

* '+MrS »b/ ;4§s&: 4 

> A' ^ * %'TI^v'*' o *P v ^6. *1 

^ *"'• A* ♦•«•• AC> V ♦•!*• A>* 

V . » * ^L'-v c> ,<y * » • v" i 

^ a /^w^- *cs ax ^ «, . v jk< 





* A^v* 

* ♦* ^ 


o 

c> ^ • 

jy A o 
<L^ * 

* # 'C* "<».*• a\ 

*0 ■ t • t ' * ♦ ^o A^ c 0 w 0 

• * o V 



<> **77* * .o' 



s «/> 




c v -* 


. t » » ^ ^Q 



9 H O 


0 ,0' 




1 * aA'-'V 
* *? % 


* aV»* 

* x X- 





•*• ✓“ v s 

•‘ ^ A* ^ 

V* v l 

y $? *\ ° 0< 

%* *'*•"•** A°^ / * A 

&£> r ty c*'-' B * *0_ A^ e ° " ° 

c stm*. ° v ./ / 




r o. 'o • 7 * A 



/, c>v//i6» * k » if \-v uvvv ' X#- * c 7^///l\j‘Jr ? iXI 

', > c\ <0^ ^ ^ *> V N A, 

* <M!X. % y :J f&tA\ 

: A ' : ' ' “ * 

^ <L V ' cU • ' (g ' ' 4 . 0 

' <y & 



o V fc 




g ^ — Oat.* A % . - 

A . v ' * * ^ f 0«5 ^ 

■ 0° /J«j0fe,*. °^> A ,•* 

■’o » 



* f 




c-* \r> ° 

•* <y? ^ < 




\0 v% *■ ' 

g, ’KJkVI \\\W 1 V V*. « 

<V *«•»’ a° v *..,.• , 

% <^ a 0 ^ v % *••• 

• ^ ^ *jA^r/Vix v^ * 

. , v „ -«™’. X : 



.o' t 


H o. 




'O. 


6" ^ ° 



- * - ^IHS^ 7 * c^> 'C. 

<C* <b“ +,r **« S «0^ ^ * O a A 

A 0 0 *• O „ ^ V . t l « 

.N <■ <xx\\u\'& «r ■y . v> + ae/fTTp^y ^ 

' o u\ N; ^i/ii «> 4 *> * vv*. A 

; ^“CT *o K 




aVv^ 

.* V ^ , 

* y <b *-• 






